UC-NRLF 


273    EbD 


I  -    i  The  Call  of  California 

iBPWWl  And   Other   Poems  o/  Me  West 


9. 


THE  CALL  OF 
CALIFORNIA 

And  Other  Poems 
of  the  West 


FRANCIS\BORTON 


FIFTH    EDITION 
Revised  and  Enlarged 


RIVERSIDE  ::  ::  CALIFORNIA 
1922 


Copyright  1917,  1921  and  1922, 
Francis  Borton 


From     the 

STUDIO  OF  CLYDE  BROWNE,  PRINTER 
Lot      A  n  g  e  I  e  t 


an    Srlru 


497236 


HE  CALL  OF 
CALIFORNIA 

And  Other  Poems  of  the  West 
<By 

FRANCIS  BORTON 


The  Call  of  California 

HAVE  wandered  far  away, 
Many  a  long  and  weary  day, 

Through  the  scenes  of  which  I 

dreamed  in  days  of  yore ; 
But  I've  turned  at  last  to  rest 
In  the  land  I  love  the  best, 

And  it's  California  now, — forevermore, 
On   the   margin    of   her   shining,   golden 

shore, 

In  the  land  of  birds  and  blossoms, — ever 
more. 

CHORUS 

Oh!  my  California  land, 

Here  I  pledge  my  heart  and  hand, 

For  I  love  but  you  forever,  love  you  true ; 
With  the  roses  in  your  hair 
And  your  lark-songs  ev'ry  where, 

Underneath  your  dreamy  skies  of  cloud 
less  blue. 


a  1  i  £  o  r  n  i  a 


From  your  Missions,  old  and  gray, 
At  the  crimson  close  of  day 

I  can  hear  the  bells  a-ringing,  soft  and 

low; 

While  the  gay  guitar  of  Spain 
Lends  a  plaintive,  sweet  refrain 

From   the   dim,   romantic   days   of   long 

ago, — 
Long  ago,  long  ago,  long  ago, 

From  the  Padres  and  the  Dons  of  long 
ago. 

From  Sierras,  thunder-riven, 
Shadowy  peaks  arise  to  heaven — 

Hooded   saints,  whose   names  are  bene- 

dicite; 

From  the  canon's  purple  rim 
Downward  rolls  their  matin  hymn 

Over  golden-fruited  valleys  to  the  sea ; 

To  the  murm'ring  pines  beside  the  shin 
ing  sea, 

Till  it  mingles  with  the  music  of  the  sea. 

In  this  sunny  land  of  mine, 
With  its  honey,  oil  and  wine, 

And  its  poppy  fields  aflame  with  living 

gold; 

In  this  Eden  of  the  earth 
God  is  bringing  to  the  birth 

Greater   wonders   than    He   wrought    in 

days  of  old; 

In  the  bold  days  of  old,  the  days  of  gold, 
Than   He   fashioned   through   the   Argo 
nauts  of  old. 

(six) 


Other    Poems    of    the    West 


We  have  wealth  upon  the  seas, 
Health  in  every  fragrant  breeze, 

Rivers  bursting  from  the  mountain's 

cloven  crest; 

We  have  leagues  of  yellow  grain — 
Many  a  cattle-covered  plain 

In   this  orange-blossom  kingdom  of  the 

West, — 
In  the  free,  unfettered,  giant-hearted 

West  — 

'Neath  the  blue  and  golden  banner  of  the 
West. 

And  it's  where  I  want  to  be, 
California's  calling  me 

Here  to  stay  forever,  never  more  to  roam ; 
Calling  me  to  come  and  rest 
On  her  glowing,  tawny  breast, 

When  her  fields  of  bloom   are  like  the 

billow's  foam; 
Where  the  silv'ry  olives  whisper-welcome 

home; 

While  along  the  hills  the  doves  are  call 
ing — home. 


(seven) 


T  h  V  C  *a  V  V  o*  f  *  C  a  1  i  f  o  r 


At  the  Old  Mission 

O  HERE'S  a  sober  hush  in  these  solemn 
woods. 

There's  mystery  in  the  air, 
That  seems  to  pour  from  the  caves  of  death ; 
You  can  feel  it  everywhere. 

A  clear  stream  brawls  through  the  piney 

dell, 

Where  the  dove  mourns  all  the  day: 
And   the   breeze   dies   down   to   a  whisper 

here — 
Where  Padres  used  to  pray. 

The  waters  gush  from  the  broken  fount, — 

But  sadly,  quietly  now; 
For   gone    are    the    monks   who    led    them 
forth, — 

The  turf  is  green  o'er  their  brow. 

The  lizard  slides  on  the  tottering  walls, 

That  were  once  so  brave  and  strong; 
While   the  very  birds,   'round   these   ruins 
gray, 

Raise  but  a  plaintive  song. 
The  cells  where  brown  Franciscans  dwelt 

Are  ceiled  with  dank,  dark  moss; 
So  deeply  the  tooth  of  Time  hath  gone 

We  can  scarcely  find  a  cross! 
The  cross,  the  name  and  the  date  grow  dim, 

Only  the  faith  remains: 
The  monk  departs,  but  his  faith  endures 

Through    the    years   with    their   beating 
rains. 

(eight) 


Other    Poems    of    the    West 


Seventeen  hundred  and  something  I  find 
In  a  cell  half  buried  by  leaves : — 

A    pine   tree    shoots   from   the    knee-worn 

stones. 
And  you'd  almost  say  it  grieves. 

The  new  must  prevail — the  old  give  place — 

And  yet — oh  heart  of  mine — 
There  is  something  that  speaks  to  me  out  of 
the  Past, 

When  I  stand  at  this  ruined  shrine, 

That  stirs  my  heart  to  its  uttermost  depths, 
But  the  reason  I  do  not  know, 

When  I  muse  on  these  symbols  of  faith  and 

love 
From  the  years  of  long  ago. 

Here  were  gardens  of  flowers  from  far-off 
Spain, 

The  olive,  the  palm  and  the  vine; 
Where  bees  and  butterflies  find  today 

But  sunlight's  golden  wine; 

Here   bells   that   clashed   in   the    old   gray 
towers ; 

And  voices  of  prayer  and  praise; 
Where  brown  hands  wrought  in  glad  content 

In  those  dim,  forgotten  days. 

All  this — and  more — that  may  never  return, 
While  the  tides  march  up  and  down; — 

The  cowl  and  the  cord,  and  the  sandal  shoon 
And  the  Padres'  robes  of  brown. 

(Hints) 


The    Call    of    California 


But  ever  the  best  of  it  all  shall  bide, 
While  rains  slant  in  from  the  sea; 

The  gentleness,  kindness  and  patient  faith 
Live  yet  for  you  and  me. 

And  long  as  the  mercy  of  God  shall  pour 

Our  sea-fogs  from  His  hands, 
Will   dreams   and    deeds    of   the    "Mission 
days" 

Be  part  of  the  lore  of  these  lands. 


Bodies  and  Souls 

IN  bridal  raiment 
Hand  in  hand 
Before  the  priest 
Of  God  they  stand. 

To  melting  glances 
Mingling  breath, 

"Now  are  ye  one," 
The  good  man  saith. 

Lips  pressed  to  lips, 
Warm  heart  to  heart, 

And  yet  how  far 
They  stand  apart. 

Flesh  knit  to  flesh,  — 
Not  soul  to  soul, 

Bridgeless  billows 
Between  them  roll. 

(ten) 


Other    Poems    of    the    West 


Juniper -o  Serra 

®HEN  weaklings  feared  and  doubted, 
While  unfaith  scoffed  and  flouted. 
Thou  still  didst  trust, 
And  in  the  dust, 
Prone  on  thy  face,  didst  pray, 
Till,  lo!  the  sudden  ray 
Of  hope, — and  ev'ry  lip. 
Rejoicing  cried:  "The  ship!" 
Deep  in  eternal  granite  be  it  graved 
How,  in  that  hour,  was  California  saved. 

$        gi        $ 

Junipero  Serra  sleeps  today 
By  the  mission  walls  at  Carmel  Bay; 
His  task  well  done,  he  takes  his  rest, 
With    thin    hands    crossed    on    his    saintly 

breast: 

While  brown  hills  welcome  the  winter  rains, 
Or  lark  songs  ripple  o'er  poppied  plains; — 
His  dreams  and  deeds  in  the  days  of  old 
Are  part  of  the  lore  of  our  land  of  gold. 


(eleven) 


The    Call    of    California 


The  West 


our  blue  Sierra's  wall, 
No  moldering  castles  rest; 
But  there  the  Redman's  Thunder-bird 
Hath  built  his  lonely  nest. 

No  hoary  donjons,  foul  with  crime, 

Oppress  the  good,  clean  sod 
Where  live-oaks  meet,  with  knotted  arms, 

The  blazing  bolts  of  God. 

Instead  of  doubtful  titles  stamped 
On  pride's  dim  vellumed  page, 

The  sullen  grizzly  here  hath  left 
The  claw  marks  of  his  rage. 

No  silken  halls,  no  softness  here, 

No  courtiers,  false  as  hell; 
But  from  the  echoing  granite  gorge 

The  panther's  deadly  yell! 

Here,  laws  unflattering,  primal,  harsh; 

The  desert's  scorching  breath; 
Here,  thorn,  fang,  claw  and  scalping  knife- 

The  crimson  trail  of  death! 

And  what  are  man-made  kings  and  courts, 

With  cheap,  brief  honors  set, 
Where,  in  the  red,  raw  clay  of  things, 

God's  thumb-prints  yet  are  wet? 

(twelve) 


Other    Poem  3    of    the    West 


Amid  these  awful  solitudes. 

With  skies  so  still  and  blue, 
Are  held  such  deadly,  fierce  debates 

As  minstrels  never  knew. 

Here  howling  winds  of  ocean  meet 

The  wild  winds  of  the  sky, 
While  vast,  dim  shapes  from  desert  wastes 

Their  spirals  wheel  on  high. 

Cliff  calls  to  cliff;  th'  avalanche 

Replies  in  thunders  loud, 
While  shafts  of  blinding  lightning  split 

The  swirling,  inky  cloud, 

That   bursts,   and   ploughs   the   mountains 
down 

The  salt  plain's  hissing  sands, 
Till  fresh-torn  canon  gulfs  reveal 

Earth's  granite  swaddling  bands! 

*          *          * 
And  here  are  men,  sons  of  thy  strength, 

Oh,  western  land  of  mine, 
Gay,  tender,  careless,  swift  and  wild, 

But  upright  as  the  pine. 

Serene,  clear-eyed,  of  Spartan  speech. 

The  breed  of  men  out  here, 
Who've    trailed    with    hunger,    thirst    and 
death, 

But  never  met  with  fear. 

The  wide,  free  winds  are  in  their  hearts, 
The  deep-voiced  torrent's  roar, 

(thirteen) 


The  solemn  stillness  of  the  woods, 
Beside  the  lonely  shore. 

They  need  no  finger-posts  for  faith; 

No  self -sure  go-between; 
They  look  God  in  the  face  and  smile; 

Their  rugged  hearts  are  clean. 

They  pluck  the  gray  wolf  from  his  den ; 

They  tire  the  grizzly  down, 
Or  peacefully  their  harvests  reap 

Along  the  foothills  brown. 

They  beat  the  mountain  into  dust ; 

They  burst  its  ribs  apart; 
Their  laughter  rings  Homeric  when 

They  clutch  its  golden  heart! 

Alone  they  win  the  chill,  still  heights, 

By  mountain  sheep  untrod ; 
They  gaze  abroad,  they  bare  their  brows 
And  shout,  "Hurrah  for  God!" 

Oh,  little  folk,  who  cringe  and  hedge. 

Who  cannot  understand, 
They  tread  a  broader  trail  than  yours 

Across  our  Sunset  Land, 

Where  man  is  kin  to  peak  and  star, 
The  wide  plain's  lonely  space ; 

Where  oft  they  ride  so  close  to  God 
They  meet  Him — face  to  face ! 

(fourteen) 


Other    Poems    of    the    West 


Mt.  Rubidoux  at  Dawn 

E  mocking  birds  are  singing  in  the 
eucalyptus  tops. 
It's  early  in  the  morning,  and  the  fog  is 

everywhere ; 
The  sounds  of  nature's  wakening  come  to  us 

tunefully 
All  softly  muffled  by  the  misty  air. 

The  "cotton  tails"  are  hopping  in  the  barley 

by  the  road ; 
Behind   a   bush   the   clucking   quail   are 

bunched — about  to  fly; 
The  liquid,  melting  melody  of  joyous  meadow 

larks 

Like  silvery  bubbles  floats  along  the  sky. 
The  "ragged  robin"  roses  spill  their  nectar 

on  the  grass 
Before  the  robber  bees,  who  love  the  sun, 

are  out  of  bed: 
While  drowsy  poppies  wait  to  pour  libations 

to  their  lord, 
When  in  the  East  he  rears  his  radiant 

head. 
The   shimmering,   emerald   laces    of   the 

queenly  pepper  tree 
Are  strewn  with  dewy  pearls  and  fringed 

with  flakes  of  scarlet  flame; 
While  the  orange,  dark  and  lustrous,  in  her 

robes  of  green  and  gold, 
Hath  sent  through  all  the  earth  this  val 
ley's  name. 

(fifteen) 


The    Call    of    California 


The  golden-dusted  mustard  pours  its  fra 
grance  down  the  hill, 
To  where,  in  marshy  tule  beds,  the  noisy 

blackbirds  throng: 
The  jangle  of  the  cattle  bells  comes  faintly 

from  below 
Where  the  lazy  Santa  Ana  rolls  along. 

How  sweet  the  button-sage's  breath  upon 

the  quiet  air; 
How  fresh  and  clean  the  odor  from  the 

haunting,  whispering  pines: 
While,  spread  in  wild  profusion,  where  the 

gray  old  boulders  cling, 
The  splendor  of  the  morning-glory  vines ! 

But  now  the  fog  is  ebbing  fast  along  Juru- 

pa's  hills, 
As  over  San  Jacinto  gleam  the  banners  of 

the  sun: 
Far  up  on  foot-worn  Rubidoux  a  shining 

cross  appears, 

The  symbol  that  the  earth's  long  night  is 
done. 


(sixteen) 


Other    Poems    of    the    West 


The  Mission  Inn 

®ITH  its  ivied  walls  and  its  cloistered  halls 
And  a  coolness  and  quietness  all  its  own; 
From  its  shady  bowers  to  its  tuneful  towers 
It's  a  fair  dream  fashioned  in  good  gray 

stone ; 

With  a  high  ideal  everywhere, 
With  a  fineness  of  sentiment  in  the  air. 
And  music — that  soothes  like  the  soul 
of  prayer. 

There's  bread  and  meat — for  a  man  must 

eat — 
But    there's  more  than  that  to  make  one 

whole : 

The  builder's  dream  had  a  broader  theme 
In  this  caravansarai  for  the  soul. 
'  'Sursum  corda, ' '  we  seem  to  hear 
From  good  St.  Francis,  standing  near, 
"Lift    up    your    hearts,    and    make    good 

cheer." 

The  saints  are  gone,  yet  they  still  live  on; 

Still  is  their  gentle  influence  felt; 
From  niche  and  nook  they  kindly  look. 
As  when  Junipero  Serra  knelt 

And  told  to  Indians  swart  and  wild 
The  wondrous  tale  of  the  dear  Christ- 
child— 
And  the  love  of  Mary,  the  mother  mild. 

When  the  day  grows  dim,  and  the  vesper 
hymn 

(seventeen) 


The    Call    of    California 


So  tunefully  sounds  in  the  silvery  chimes, 

I  seem  to  hear — far  away  and  clear — 

Voices  that  speak  from  the  olden  times: 

Of  sacrifice,  better  than  gold  or  fame, 

Of  love  that  burned  like  a  fragrant 

flame — 
Till  my  selfish  heart  is  faint  for  shame. 

Not  for  me  alone  is  this  sermon  in  stone, 
Nor  only  to  me   do   these  mute  things 

speak : 

Full  many  a  heart  has  received  its  part, 
The    quiet    tear    glistened    on    many    a 

cheek ; 

Many  a  pilgrim  has  paused  to  say: 
"I'm  glad  my  heart  ever  found  the  way 
To  the  Mission  Inn  at  the  close  of  day." 


(eighteen) 


Other    Poems    of    the    West 

Down  the  Grade  with  "Bob" 

(1874) 

®E'VE  topped  the  grade,  now  for  the 
other  side; 
Sling  the  buckskin  in  'em — let  'er  slide. 

We're  full  of  'Frisco  folks  and  tenderfeet 
That  wants  some  early  stagin' — here's  their 
treat. 

Straighten  them  tugs — don't  let  'em  drag 

the  dust — 
Hi  there!  you  trottin'  pinto,  lope  er  bust. 

A  bunch  of  broncs,  and  hellions  every  one- 
Hoop-la,  git  out-f ergit  yer  shoulder's  skun. 

Oh  we're  all  right:  my  lady,  dry  yer  tears, 
Sit   down,  my  lord,   and   chase   away   yer 
fears ; 

The  road  is  twelve  feet  wide  from  bluff  to 

ledge 
With  manzaniller  strung  along  the  edge. 

Why,  man  alive,  a  Chinymun  at  night 
Could  strike  the  trail  here — why  it's  out  o' 
sight! 

Git  out  p'  here — you  leaders,  switch  yer 

tails, 
Yer  haulin'  Uncle   Sammy's  sacred  mails; 

Stretch  them  there  traces,  limber  up  yer 

heels, 
No  moseyin'  er  I'll  show  you  how  it  feels. 

(nineteen) 


The    Call    of    California 


No  bitin'  now — you  lop-eared  antelope — 
You  old  kyoty — bust  it  down  the  slope; 

Jump    through    them    collars — hump   yer 

backs  'n  git — 
You  haven't  turned  a  hair — now  chaw  the 

bit. 

Thanks,   stranger,   yes, — I   surely   guess   I 

could 
Smoke  a  cigar — gimme  a  light — that's  good; 

There  haint  no  tin-foil  cabbage  leaves  to 

thai^- 
A  Mexican  cigar — I'll  bet  my  hat! 

You  see,  I  used  tuh  run  'em  through,  you 

know 
Over  the  Rio  Grande  from  Mexico, 

Some  years  before  that  old  wheel  plug  was 

born — 
But  here's  our  hangout — Gabriel  toot  yer 

horn; 

Grubstake  Junction,  where  they'll  treat  you 

white, 
The  bar-room's  blazin' — strangers,  will  you 

light? 


(twenty) 


Other    Poems    of    the    West 


The  Road  by  Panama 

OHE  old  road,  the  gold  road,  the  road  by 
Panama, 

As   lurid,   ghastly   as  the   path  that  Dante 
dimly  saw, 

Hemmed  about  by  nameless  terrors,  haunted 
by  alarms, — 

The    ghosts    of    treasure-seekers    spent,    of 
spectral  men-at-arms. 

A  narrow  way  and  rugged,  wild,  where  jun 
gle  shadows  spread 

O'er  many  a  bubbling,  slimy  pool  and  hide 
ous  blotch  of  red. 

Amid  its  ooze  the  rotting  bones  of  famished 
Spanish  mules, 

The  grinning  skulls  of  picaroons  and  for 
tune's  cheated  fools. 

The  venomed  snake,  the  vulture  keen,  the 
deadly  fly  are  there, 

And  fetid  heaps  whose  breath  is  death  upon 
the  sickly  air. 

*         *         * 

Along  the  hot,  dark  forest  aisles  again  we 
seem  to  hear 

The  rush  of  feet,  the  clash  of  blades,  the 
hoarse-voiced  buccaneer, 

The  whistle  of  the  slaver's  whip,  the  screams 
of  tortured  men, 

Who  sink  beneath  the  bloody  lash  to  never 
rise  again; 

The  silver-laden,  grunting  mules,  with  plun 
der  from  Peru, 

(twenty-one) 


The    Call    of    California 


The  shouts  of  conquering  Cortez'  men,  of 

Drake  and  Morgan's  crew; 
Pizarro's    Spaniards,    haggard,    weak,    with 

fear  in  every  eye, 

Who  may  not  stay  nor  sleep  for  ever  "on 
ward"  is  the  cry; 
Who    fear    the    gloom    where    glows    the 

hounded  Indian's  sleepless  hate, 
Where  mutilated  galley-slaves  like  panthers 

lie  in  wait; — 
And  so  full  oft  they  cross  themselves,  to 

stout  San  Yago  pray, 
As  on  they  urge  with  curses  foul  through 

the  hot,  weary  way, 
Hugging    tight    their    hard-won    spoils    and 

fainting  with  desire 
To  tread  the  streets  of  Panama  and  lap  its 

liquid  fire; 
Where  painted  harpies  watch  for  them,  with 

baleful  eyes  and  bold, 
To   strip  them  clean  with  iron  claws  and 

leave  them  stark  and  cold. 


Oh!  the  old  road,  the  gold  road,  the  road  by 

Panama, 
A  rosary  of  every  crime,  where  lawlessness 

was  law, 
Where  harvestings  of  piracies  on  sea  and 

land  went  by, — 
Thrice  cursed   treasure  black  with  groans 

and  ravished  women's  cry; 
The  minted   sweat   and  blood   of  branded, 

scarred,  Peruvian  slaves, 

(twenty-two) 


Other    Poems    of    the    West 


The  riflings  of  their  temples,  yea,  the  win- 
nowings  of  their  graves! 

*  *         * 

And  later,  by  this  wild  highway,  with  daunt 
less  hearts  aflame, 

The  boisterous,  bearded  Argonauts  from 
California  came; 

In  motley  rags  with  belts  and  bags  of  un 
stained  virgin  ore 

Stripped  from  the  shining,  granite  ribs  of 
Eldorado's  shore! 

*  *         * 

Aye,  many   a  golden   trickle  ran,   through 

many  a  fearful  year 
To  swell  the  rich  Pactolus  tide  of  this  Hell's 

gullet  here. 
But    all    is    hushed    and    quiet    now:    they 

passed  and  left  no  trace, 
And  in  the  solemn  forest  shade  no  eye  may 

mark  their  place. 
They   dreamed   their  dream,  they  wrought 

their  deed  of  valor  or  of  shame, 
To   share  alike,  some  few  brief  years,  an 

infamy  of  fame! 


( twenty-three ) 


The    Call    of    California 


Mexico 

'HE  is  circled  with  lakes,  she  is  shad 
owed  by  mountains, 
5now-mantled,  pine-plumed,    under-girded 

with  flame; 

She  is  young,  she  is  old  as  her  sister  of  Egypt, 
She  is  ever,  forever,  yet  never  the  same. 

Fresh  is  her  cheek  as  her  green  curving 

valleys, 
Care  free  her  heart  as  her  brown  babes  at 

rest; 
Bright  are  her  hopes  as  the  eyes  of  her 

daughters, 

Her  passion  as  fierce  as  her  storms  from 
the  West. 

Her  story  as  sad  as  the  gloom  of  her  "northers," 
Her  struggle  as  epic  as  ever  was  told; 

Her  heroes  are  laureled  in  valor's  Valhalla, 
With  coronals  woven  of  nopal  and  gold. 

Oh,  Mexico!    heiress  of  cycles  of  sorrow, 
Of  jungle-grown  hieroglyphs,  meaningless 
now, 

Of  histories,  cities,  dumb,  buried  forever, 
Of  mysteries  dark  as  the  runes  on  thy  brow. 

Glorious  with  rare  carven  gems  from  the  ages, 

Waiting  the  wonderful  years  yet  to  be, 
Clasping  thy  brown  hand  we  hail  thee,  our 

sister, 

Thou  queen,  silver  throned  by  thine  opal 
esque  sea. 

(twenty -four) 


Other    Poems    of    the    West 


The  Land  of  the  Arriero 

i  HERE  valleys  are  deep  and  mountains 
_  are  high 

And  the  mule-track  hangs  like  a  streak  in 

the  sky, — 
Like  a  vulture's  path  through  the  thin,  still 

air 

Far  over  the  "hot  lands,"  shimmering  there; 
Where  afar  and  faintly  the  music  swells 
Of  quick-stepping,  grey  mules'  silvery  bells; 
Where  pine  trees  yield  to  the  pine-apple's 

gold 
And   billows   of  bloom   o'er   the   earth   are 

rolled; 
Where  the  trees  drip  honey,  the  sod  sweats 

death 
And  sucks  out  your  life  with  its  vampire 

breath; 
Where  the  warm,  green  heart  of  that  lotus 

land 

Gives  all  with  a  care-free,  generous  hand, — 
Tis  there  that  the  gay  arriero's  found, 
Where  he  takes  his  ease  on  his  own  home 

ground. 

Where  cataracts  thunder,  the  parrots  scream, 
And  gorgeous,  wonderful  butterflies  gleam, 
While  marvelous  birds  in  their  glowing  wings 
Wear  the  royal  splendors  of  Aztec  kings; 
Where  the  wild  orange  drops  its  acrid  fruit 
Near  the  strangled,  writhing  ceiba's  root; 
Where  the  hiss  is  heard  of  the  spotted  snake 

(twenty-five) 


The    Call    of    California 


As  iguanas  slide  through  the  bamboo  brake; 
Where  the  tapir  crunches  the  river  reeds 
And  the  jaguar  leaps  as  the  red  deer  feeds; 
And  the  cayman  basks  on  the  sun-baked  bar, 
While  life,  as  you  knew  it,  seems  dim  and 

far; — 

From  there  do  the  swart  arrieros  come, — 
To  those  mystical  beauties  blind  and  dumb. 

They  laden  their  mules  with  rich,  fragrant 

freights : 

Coffee,  vanilla,  fruits,  parrots  in  crates, 
Sugar,  tobacco,  raw  liquor  in  casks, 
A  mouthful  of  which  arriero  asks 
To  lighten  his  heart  up  the  steep,  rough  road, 
'Neath  the  scorching  sun  and  the  heavy  load. 

Lithe  as  a  tigre  and  tireless  of  limb, 
Clean  moulded  in  bronze,  ev'ry  inch  of  him, 
Son  of  the  sunland,  gay,  careless  and  wild, 
Aztec,  fierce,  passionate,  nature's  own  child, 
His  thirty  stout  mules  upward  grunting  go 
Over  the  narrow  trail,    steady  and  slow; 
Snuffing  the  pathway  that  clings  to  the  edge 
Of  the  sheer  down-dropping,  slippery  ledge; 
The  trail  that  was  known  to  Cortez  of  old 
Who  dreamed  of  dim  valleys  paven  with  gold, 
While  crushing  the  land  'neath  his  iron-shod 

heel 
When  the  red  years  rang  to  the  clash  of 

steel! 

How  silvery  sweet  ring  the  mule-bells  there, 
When  the  dew  yet  freshens  the  morning  air! 

(twenty -six) 


Other    Poems    of    the    West 


How  merrily  sound  the  songs  of  the  South, 
As    carelessly    flung    from    the    muleteer's 

mouth: 

Songs  of  the  soil,  of  the  heart,  of  the  sun, 
Of  dulce  amor  or  partida  won, 
With  many  a  sighing  and  ay  de  mi, 
In  the  high-pitched,  Mexican  nasal  key! 

He's  a  good  paisano,  I  know  him  well, 

He  hopes  there's  a  heaven,  is  sure  there's  a 

hell, 

Trusts  in  the  padre,  remembers  to  pray 
To  the  blessed  saints  in  his  own  blind  way, 
And  slaves  for  his  amo  for  scanty  pay. 
He  climbs   the  wild   mountains   in   sun  or 

shower 
And   cares   for   his   mules   in   the   darkest 

hour; 

His  *  amo  would  grieve  for  an  injured  mule, 
As  for  him,  why,  he  is  only  a  fool, 
Like  a  simple  hero  of  low  degree 
He  dies  for  his  charge  if  need  there  be 
And   returns   to   his   palm-thatched   hut   no 

more 
Where  his  brown  babes  roll  on  the  cool, 

dirt  floor. 


*  "Amo,"  boss. 


(twenty-seven) 


The    Call    of    California 


A  Thunder  Storm  in  Puebla 

'ROM    morning     prayer     until     mid-af 
ternoon 

"he  August  sun  has  scorched  us  to  a  swoon; 
The  languid  flowers  droop,  the  pepper  trees 
Respond  but  feebly  to  the  faint,  hot  breeze. 

The  brown  hills  are  a  quiver  with  the  heat: 
Hugging  the  scanty  shade  of  every  street 
The  dogs  slink  by  too  spent  to  scratch  or 

bark; 
Awhile  the  beggars  cease  their  whine,  when 

hark  — 
Down  from  the  mountain  rolls  a  long,  deep 

roar 
And  wise  "Poblanos"  shut  and  bar  the  door. 

In  thrice  three  credos  old  Malinche's  brow 
Is  swirled  in  ebon  darkness,  where  but  now 
The  southern  sun  poured  down  a  flood  of 

gold 
O'er  shattered  crag  and  wrinkled  lava  fold. 

With   tropic   fierceness   falls   th'   onrushing 

gloom, 

Swiftly  the  bright  day  yields  its  virgin  bloom 
To  the  marauder,  thunder-browed,  whose 

power 
Swells  black  to  heav'n  in  this  tempestuous 

hour. 

INOW  latch  the  shutters,  chain  the  heavy  door, 
Call  to  the  Virgin,  all  the  saints  implore 

(twenty-eight) 


Other    Poems     of    the    West 


As  shouting  winds  and  lightning's  crooked 

prong 
Urge  the  slow-footed,  bellowing  clouds  along. 

Jesus,  Maria,  hearken  to  the  rain 
Flooding  the  patio  while  on  every  pane 
The  hailstones  beat  the  very  fiend's  tatoo, 
And  every  dust-clogged  water-spout  a-spew! 
Most  Blessed  Virgin,  we  confess  our  faults, 
(Maria,  vida  mia,  bring  my  salts), 
Where  is  Francisco,  lazy  lout,  to  burn 
The  blessed  palm  leaves  in  the  incense  urn? 

No  time  for  chatter  now,  nor  idle  talk, 
When    sulphur-breathing    demons    near    us 

walk, 

"Sweet  Guadalupe,  help  us  all  today, 
To  thee  we  pobres  pecadores  pray." 

Then  suddenly,  in  one  long,  furious  blast, 
Of  lightning,   thunder,  hail,  the  storm  has 

passed. 

The  sun  appears,  and  in  the  western  skies 
The  rainbow  path  that  slopes  to  Paradise! 

Gone  are  the  dolour,  darkness,  and  the  gloom, 
Gone  every  thought  of  an  unwelcome  tomb: 
Vaya,  mi  alma,  now  the  storm  is  o'er, 
Bid  the  portero  haste,  unbar  the  door, 
Blow  out  the  candles,  we  shall  not  be  late, 
The  tandas  won't  begin  till  half-past  eight. 


(twenty-nine) 


The    Call    of    California 


Taking  the  Fell  (Mexico) 

[iTH  unbound  hair  and  brown  feet  bare, 

A  taper  in  her  hands, 
[thin  the  gloomy  convent  church 
A  dark-eyed  maiden  stands, 

All  corpse-like  in  a  clinging  shroud, 

A  cross  upon  her  breast, — 
The  hour  hath  come  to  bid  farewell 

To  all  she  loveth  best. 

Her  virgin  heart  is  dry  as  dust, 

Her  face  is  like  the  dead; 
The  church  hath  laid  its  withering  touch 

Upon  her  fair  young  head. 

Her  thin  hand  wears  a  golden  band, — 

The  mystic  wedding  ring 
That  seals  her  as  the  spouse  of  Christ, 

Her  Lover,  Bridegroom,  King. 

The  air  is  heavy,  damp  and  cold, 

The  candles  dimly  gleam 
While  priests  about  the  altar  go 

Like  figures  in  a  dream. 

They  chant  the  service  for  the  dead, 

For  her  so  wan  and  still, 
With  Kyrie  eleison 

From  boyish  voices  shrill. 

O!   hapless  maid,  deceived,  betrayed, 
The  victim  of  a  vow, 

(thirty) 


Other    Poems    of    the    West 


To  wither  in  a  living  death, 
Like  Jephtha's  daughter  now! 

No  lover's  kiss,  no  mother's  bliss 
Her  frozen  heart  may  know, 

Within  the  convent's   coffin  walls 
Through  years  of  dumb-lipped  woe. 

No  more  on  earth  may  she  behold 

Each  well-beloved  face; 
No  more  the  circle  of  the  home 

Shall  hold  for  her  a  place; 

All,  all,  upon  the  altar  there 

Hath  now  been  sacrificed, 
And  so  farewell  to  life  and  love, 

Farewell,  thou  bride  of  Christ. 

One  last  wild  look  at  love  and  life, 
One  shriek, — and  that  is  all, 

A  doleful  bell  rings  like  a  knell, 
The  sable  curtains  fall. 


(thirty-one) 


The    Call    of    Californi 


Old  House  in  Puebla,  Mexico 

[HREE  hundred  years  are  in  these  walls, 

These  iron-bound  doors  of  oak, 
lose  rugged  strength  has  oft  withstood 
Sir  Robber's  shrewdest  stroke. 

The  knocker  wears  a  demon's  head, — 

Jesu,  and  well-away; 
A  goatish  devil,  bearded,  horned, 

Let  him  who  knocketh  pray 

To  where  above,  in  battered  niche, 

The  good  St.  Francis  stands, 
Marked  Christwise  in  his  blessed  feet 

And  in  his  loving  hands. 

The  Moorish  front  is  gay  with  tiles 

Of  yellow,  green  and  blue, 
Inwrought  in  cunning,  quaint  designs 

As  ancient  craftsmen  knew. 

Rude  gargoyles  grin  from  jutting  eaves, 

A  spout  of  hammered  lead 
Shoots  the  flat  roof's  flood  to  the  street 

Through  gaping  lion's  head. 

Above  the  door  an  ancient  crest, 
Carved  in  the  old  grey  stone:  — 

A  tiger  couched,  a  helmet  barred, 
A  fist  that  grips  its  own! 

They  say  the  house  is  haunted,  cursed, 
And  show  a  bloody  stain 

(thirty-two) 


Other    Poems    of    the    West 


Linked  with  a  tale  of  love  and  gold 
From  the  old  Spanish  Main. 

Great  spiders  lurk  in  corners  dim, 

Foul  bats  breed  in  the  wall; 
At  night,  when  worm-gnawed  timbers  creak, 

Faint  whispers  fill  the  hall, 

From  lips  of  dust,  from  love  betrayed, 
From  woman's  vengeful  heart, 

Whose  clinging  curse  from  these  old  stones 
May  nevermore  depart. 


A  Mexican  Beggar 

lECAUSE  he  was  so  old,  deformed  and 
_  poor, 

Because  he  bent  so  meekly  his  hoar  head, 
Because  he  bore  the  dignity  of  sorrow 
AS  some  king  begging  in  a  beggar's  guise, 
Because  he  was  so  thankful  for  the  trifle 
Carelessly    tossed    him    from    my    surplus 

store:  — 

Because  of  his  bare  feet  and  tattered  rags  — 
His  thin  grey  locks  and  utter  misery, 
I  rested  but  uneasily  that  night, 
Dreaming  of  Dives,  Lazarus  and  their  lesson. 
Of  creed  and  church,  of  apostolic  faith, 
Of  orthodox  confessions  and  professions  — 
Strange  a  street  beggar  should  disturb  me 

so! 

(thirty-three) 


The     Call    of    California 

A  Glimpse  of  Mexico 
at  Home 

[HE  windows  frown  with  heavy  bars  of 

iron; 

le  great  zaguan  is  like  some  castle  door, 
Spiked,  bolted,  chained  and  solid  as  the  wall, 
With  quaint  bronze  knocker  o'er  the  wicket 
hung. 

For  there  were  times,  whose  mem'ry  still  is 

fresh, 
When  great  need  was  of  such  stout  doors  as 

these  — 
When  bold  Sir  Robber,  loud-voiced,  sword 

in  hand, 
Knocked  not  so  gently  as  we  knock  today. 

Three  centuries  are  seen  in  this  zaguan 

Of  evolution,  liberty  and  law; 

And  twenty  centuries  are  in  the  cry 

Of  the  portero,  fumbling  at  the  bar, 

Who   calls    quien   esf   before   he    slips   the 

chain, 
As  porters  in  the  dim  days  of  the  Christ. 

Yo  Soy,  we   cry, — the   old   man   hears   and 

knows 

The  accents  of  his  patron's  welcome  voice. 
Drops  the  huge  chain,  slides  back  the  bar, 

and  we 
Are  in  the  patio  of  a  Mexic  home! 

(thirty-four) 


Other    Poems    of    the    West 


Coolness  and  rest;  a  fountain  in  the  midst, 
Decked     with     quaint     carvings,     murmurs 

drowsily; 

The  solid,  whitened  arches  all  about, 
Have   brought   us   to   the   ancient   Moorish 

Spain, 

Shutting  us  from  the  modern  world  outside, 
Into  the  home  life  of  Cid  Campeador! 

Flowers  ev'rywhere,  in  Talavera  pots, 

In    shattered    ollas,    broken    sugar    moulds, 

While   orchids,   cactus,   bloom   in   great   ox 

horns 
Hung  from   rude   spikes   thrust   in  the  old 

stone  wall. 

Chatter  of  women  'round  the  plashing  fount, 
Brown,  shirtless  ninos  creeping  in  the  sun; 
And  over  all,  laughter  and  glad  content, — 
Happy,  though  poor,  these  simple  Mexicans. 

Within  the  house  we  find  the  constant  lamp 
Of  turnip  oil  before  the  Virgin  placed, — 
Sweet  symbol  of  a  faith  that  will  not  die; 
Chromos  of  hell  and  heaven,  angels,  fiends, 
The  good  man  borne  to  glory,  while  foul 

devils 
All  hoofed  and  horned,  bear  the  bold  sinner 

hence, 

To  red  hell  shrieking, — all  in  vivid  hues, — 
No  place  for  "higher  criticism"  there. 

The  almanac  hangs  open  on  the  wall 
To   mark   the   saint's   days   of   the   mother 
church ; 

(thirty-five) 


The    Call    of    California 


Rude  charcoal  burners  from  the  pine-clad 

slopes 

Of  dark  Malinche,  farmers,  artisans, 
The  rich  and  poor,  all  guard  the  "holy  days," 
And  even  butchers  close  their  reeking  stalls. 

You  cannot  know,  you  cannot  understand 
You  careless  tourist  from  the  outside  world, 
You  do  not,  cannot  feel  the  inner  life 
That  throbs  in  Mexico,  the  guide-books  fail, 
They  may  not  give  the  "open  sesame: — " 

The  patios  where  crystal  fountains  drip, 
Where  women  gossip  when  the  air  is  cool, 
The  courtesy,  the  kindness,  filial  love 
That  links  the  home  hearts  here  in  Mexico. 

From  polished  hoop  the  parrot  swings  and 

screams 

In  fluent  Spanish  all  the  drowsy  day; 
The  lavanderas  swash  their  clothes  near  by 
Where  brown  babes  crawl,  in  naked  comfort 

free, — 
"Race  suicide,"  a  thing  undreamed  of  here! 

Compadres  and  comadres,  wrinkled,  grey, 
Still  use  the  customs  of  old  Abram's  time, 
Poetic,  patriarchal, — poured  round  all 
The  silver  melody  of  Spanish  speech! 

Servants  grown  old  in  service  of  their  friend, 
Their  lord  and  amo,  master  of  their  lives 
Who  serve  for  love  and  the  sweet  "nifio's" 

sake. — 
Faithful  till  death, — there  are  such  servants 

here. 

(thirty-six) 


Other    Poems    of    the    West 


And  over  all  this  inner  life  of  ours 

In    lippling    waves,    a    heart-born    laughter 

flows, 

A  simple  happiness  and  sweet  content. 
How  much  there  is  that  money  cannot  buy, 
That  may  be  found  here  in  this  ancient  land; 
Things  the  heart  hungers  for,  the  pearls  of 

faith, 
Strange,   but   you'll    find   them    with   these 

Mexicans; 

But  not  for  sale,  nor  saleable  for  such 
Are  the  choice  fruits  of  simple  lives  that 

hold 

Fast  to  the  principles  our  fathers  knew, 
When  they  were  glad  and  grateful  in  their 

day 

For  rain  and  sunshine,  harvest  and  a  home, 
And  sweet  babes  growing  heav'nward  from 

the  hearth, — 
Yea,  such  things  may  be  found  in  Mexico! 


(thirty-seven) 


The    Call    of    Californi 


In  the  Days  of  the  Buccaneers 

[HERE  Palo  Verde  broods  above 
_         The  never  quiet  waves, 
That  burst  in  thunder  far  within 

Her  pearl-enameled  caves, 
Alone,  upon  the  sea-birds'  ledge 

That  overhangs  the  bay, 
I  watch  the  fleet  of  fishers  creeping 

Catalina  way; 
The  lumber  schooners  warping  in, 

All  redolent  of  pine, 
The  deep-sea  freighters  at  their  docks 

Where   donkey-engines   whine; 
I  trace  the  sea-wall's  shelt'ring  arm 
That  holds  the  harbor  light 
To  cheer  the  channel  coasters  through 
The  wild  Southeaster's  night, 
And,  while  the  shining  steamers  pass 
Like  shuttles  to  and  fro, 
Before  my  eyes  there  seem  to  rise 

The  days  of  long  ago. 
Seen  through  the  veil  of  vanished  years 

How  dim  and  far  they  seem, — 
The  treasure  ship,  the  pirate's  gold, — 

A  half  remembered  dream! 

THE     GALLEON 

Beyond  the  bay,  Manila  bound, 

I  see  the  galleon  go, 
Deep  laden  with  her  silver  spoil 

From  mines  in  Mexico. 

(thirty-eight) 


Other    Poems    of    the    West 


Her  fat  hull  lined  with  dye-woods,  gums, 

Rude  bales  of  wrinkled  hides, 
Pearls,  ginseng,  crimson  cochineal 

And   bezoar   stones   besides. 

Athwart  the  high,  embattled  poop 

Her  stately  name  unrolled, — 
"La  Trinidad  Santisima," 

In  carven  scrolls  of  gold. 

Her  culv'rins  huge,  of  Moorish  bronze, 
Each  duly  named  and  blessed, 

Reveal  th'  armourer's  utmost  art, — 
On  each  the  royal  crest, 

High   overhead,  with   Cross  blood-red, 

The  banner  of  Castile, 
While  clad  in  shining  Milan  mail 

From  haughty  head  to  heel, 

The  blue-veined  Don  looks  proudly  down 

Along  her  castled  walls, 
Silent  save  when  to  ear-ringed  men 

His  silver  trumpet  calls. 

The  crew,  right  sturdy  villains  all, 

By  dreams  of  plunder  led; 
Bound  turban  wise  with  gaudy  scarves 

Each  scarred,  ferocious  head. 

While  mingled  with  them  friars  grey, 
Who  deem  the  world  but  dross, 

So  might  they  bear  to  heathen  lands 
The  mystery  of  the  Cross. 

(thirty-nine) 


The    Call    of    California 


With  glorious  eyes  of  Andaluz 

And  rippling,  ebon  hair 
A  grieving  daughter  bends  beside 

Her  gray-beard  father  there 

And  stares  as  one  distraught  upon 

The  cold  and  cruel  sea, 
Or  breathes  soft  prayers  to  pitying  saints 

With  many  an  ay  de  mi! 

Sweet  Jesus,  will  she  see  once  more 

Her  sun-bright  Spanish  home 
Beyond  the  fields  of  bitter  brine, 

The  weary  leagues  of  foam? 

Don  Captain  Vasco  de  Guzman, 

A  valiant  Spaniard  he, 
Who  fears  not  any  shape  that  haunts 

The  vast,  mysterious   sea: 

The  hippocamp  with  leathern  wings, 

The  serpent-headed  whale, 
The  fearful  kraken,  slimy,  huge, 

With  scales  like  brazen  mail; 

Whose  writhing  arms  suck  down  the  ships 

Swirled  in  an  inky  tide:  — 
The  crested  dragons  spouting  flame 

On  whom  the  mermen  ride:  — 

When  sandaled  pilgrims,  whisp'ring  tell 

Of  such  foul  worms  as  these, 
That  rear  aloft  their  hideous  heads 

In  strange,  uncharted  seas, 

(forty) 


Other    Poems    of    the    West 


With  swelling  Spanish  oaths  the  Don 

Will  stun  the  doubting  ear, — 
How  all  such  scurvy  cattle  he 

Has  seen,  but  cannot  fear; 

Not  them,  nor  all  the  roaring  fiends 

Astride  the  tempest's  blast:  — 
For  why, — he  hath  a  holy  bone 

Safe  bedded  in  the  mast! 

A  gracious  bone,  most  potent,  rare, 
Prom  good  San  Yago's  shrine, — 

The  foul  fiend's  self  dare  not  draw  near 
Where  that  sweet  bone  doth  shine! 

Yet  one  there  was  whose  dreaded  name 
Could  chill  the  Don  with  fear:  — 

Bill  Hawkins,  heretic  accursed, 
The  English  buccaneer! 

The  picture  shifts,  the  galleon's  gone, 

Through  mists  of  silver  spray 
And  now  the  wolfish  pirate  ship 

Comes  snuffing  up  the  bay. 

THE     PIRATES 

For  long,  long  years  the  Silver  Seas 

That  name  of  terror  knew, — 
Bill  Hawkins,  monster,  merciless, 

And  his  ferocious  crew 

Of  crop-eared  knaves,  scarred  galley  slaves, 
And  rogues  with  branded  hands, 

Gaol  fruit  to  weight  the  gallows  tree, — 
Swept  up  in  many  lands. 

(forty-one) 


The    Call    of    California 


From  Maracaibo  to  Peru, 

From  Vera  Cruz  to  Spain 
Their  crimson  crimes  unnameable 

Had  left  a  bloody  train, 

Each  scuttled  ship  a  blazing  tomb 

With  ne'er  a  breath  of  life;  — 
One  swift  grim  law  for  all, — the  plank, 

Rope,  pistol,  pike  or  knife! 

With  wolfish  eyes  they  share  the  prize, 
With  many  a  murderous  blow; — 

The  jolly  Roger  overhead, 
The  ghastly  decks  below; 

They  broach  the  rum,  the  fiddlers  come, 

Around  and  'round  they  reel; 
They've  diced  with  Death,  the  game  is  theirs, 

With  a  dead  man  at  the  wheel! 

And  while  their  hellish  revelry 

Affronts  the  quiet  skies 
They're  off  again  for  Port  o'  Spain 

And  some  fat  galleon  prize. 

So  grew  their  glittering,  golden  spoil 

But  ah,  the  shrieks  and  tears, 
The  gurgling  groans  that  blackened  it 

Through  wild,  crime-crusted  years; 

That  treasure  wrung  from  bursting  hearts, 

From  pallid  hands  of  woe, 
By  tortures  sharp  and  exquisite 

As  only  devils  know. 

(forty-two) 


Other    Poems    of    the    West 


But  when  at  last  the  lion's  paw 

Upon  Bill  Hawkins  fell 
The  bulk  of  their  huge  hoard  was  gone 

And  where, — no  man  could  tell. 

In  clanking  chains  they  hung  him  high 

At  Execution  Dock. 
Yet  to  the  end  he  snapped  and  cursed, 

His  heart  like  any  rock. 

He  would  not  tell,  nor  ever  told, 

He  left  no  faintest  clew, 
No  map  nor  scrap  to  guide  the  greed 

Of  his  rapacious  crew, 

Who    searched    in    vain    through    all    their 
haunts, 

On  many  a  shining  shore, 
By  cave  and  cliff,  by  tree  and  tower 

A  twelve  months'  space  or  more. 

By  rum  and  riot  some  were  slain, 

And  some  by  foul  disease, 
Some  rotted  in  the  festering  slime 

Of  dungeons  overseas; 

Upon  the  rack  some  howled  their  last, 

Too  few  the  gibbet  bore; 
To  open  sea  the  rest  won  free, 

And  there  an  oath  they  swore, 

To  seek  far  off  in  Western  seas 

Bill  Hawkin's  hidden  lair 
For  black-faced  Anak  in  a  dream 

Had  seen  the  treasure  there! 

(forty-three) 


The    Call    of    California 


Then  Westward  Ho!  away  they  go, 

They  cross  the  Silver  Seas 
Whose  coral  islands  oft  had  known 

Their  merry   devilries. 

On,  on  they  sail  till  warm  winds  fail, 

They  curse  the  ice  and  snow: 
Again  the  black  man  dreams  his  dream, 

And  onward  aye  they  go. 

Around  the  utmost  icy  cape 

They  wrestle  with  the  blast; 
Then  shift  their  sails  to  milder  gales 

And  trust  the  worst  is  past. 

They  sight  Peru,  "Spain's  treasure  chest,"- 

The  land  Pizarro  won, 
(It's  jeweled  temples  paved  with  gold), 

From  Incas  of  the  sun. 

Like  grinning  wolves  that  near  the  prey 

They  urge  the  ship  along; 
The  rum  beside  the  mast  all  day, 

All  night  the  rover's  song. 

Now  clear  and  cold  like  silver  spires 

The  peaks  of  Mexico 
Where  Cortez  found  a  Spanish  cure 

For  Montezuma's  woe; 

And  found  withal  such  shining  pearls, 
Such  emerald  stones  and  gold, 

That  every  pirate  sucks  his  cheeks 
Whene'er  the  tale  is  told. 

(forty-four) 


Other    Poems    of    the    West 


Through  windless  seas  of  sodden  grass 

Most  evilly  they  fare, 
Till  sails  with  rotting  mold  are  green 

As  any  mermaid's  hair, 
Till  Hawkins  and  his  gold  they  curse 

And  curse  each  other  there. 

Then  California's  golden  shore 
With  wondering  joy  they  view, 

The  friendly  Indian's  flashing  oar 
Beside  his  swift  canoe; 

The  fair  green  hills  whose  silver  rills 

Run  singing  to  the  sea 
Through  fragrant  meadows  bright  with  bloom 

And  wild  bird's  minstrelsy. 

His  dream  holds  yet,  the  signs  are  met, 

Black  Anak  grins  with  glee; 
Lo!   on  the  right  St.  Peter's  cove, 

St.  Catharine  on  the  lee. 

Down  come  the  sails,  the  anchor  plumps, 

The  rum  goes  gaily  'round, 
Were  never  men  more  fain  to  see 

Their  shadows  on  the  ground! 

With  panting  strokes  they  win  the  beach, 

Th'  Ethiop  leads  the  way: 
Their  hot  breaths  whistle  at  his  back, 

His  thick  lips  seem  to  pray. 

Now  here,  now  there,  they  search  and  swear, 

God,  how  they  ramp  and  rave; 
Have  they  been  diddled  by  a  dream, — 

Then  Christ  that  black  man  save! 

(forty-five) 


The    Call    of    California 


With  frenzied  hands  they  hurl  the  sands, 

Rocks,  shells  and  vines  apart, 
In  every  eye  the  lust  for  gold, 

Murder  in  each  foul  heart. 

At  last  their  streaming  toil  unstops 

A  huge,  black  yawning  hole; 
So  murky,  deep  and  deadly  cold 

That  fear  grips  every  soul; 

But  not  for  long, — they  strike  a  flint 

The  spark  leaps  out  and  there 
They  eye  the  ghastly  proofs  that  mark 

Bill  Hawkin's  secret  lair! 

A  shattered  skull,  a  rusted  blade, 

A  shapeless  pile  of  bones, — 
At  which  some  spat  and  crossed  themselves 

And  spake  in  milder  tones: 

Then  swore  more  foully,  passed  the  rum, 

Thrust  forth  a  torch  and  saw 
What  they  had  scourged  the  seas  to  gain 

And  broken  every  law. 

Deep  sunken  in  the  cavern's  mold 

The  smoking  lights  reveal 
An  ancient  chest  of  Spanish  oak 

With  bands  and  bolts  of  steel; 

Upon  whose  cover,  red  with  rust, 

Some  dim  device  is  seen; 
A  Latin  scrawl,  a  helmet  plumed, 

With  ramping  beasts  between; 

(forty-six> 


Other    Poems    of    the    West 


At  sight  of  which  the  gloomy  vault 
Resounds  with  oaths  and  cheers, — 

Forgotten  then  their  scars  and  wounds 
Their  hunger,  cold  and  fears. 

Leaps  forth  the  dreamer  Anak  then 
With  hoarse  unhuman  yell — 

A  tongueless  eunuch  huge  and  black, — 
Tusked  like  a  fiend  from  Hell, 

Heaves  up  a  mighty  bowlder  there, 
Bursts  oak  and  steel  in  twain 

And  lo!  the  long  sought  glittering  hoard, 
Culled  from  the  Spanish  Main! 

THE     TREASURE 

They  do  not  dream,  the  torches  gleam 

On  gold  and  jewels  there; 
Such  gems  as  high-born  Spanish  dames 

On  cold,  proud  bosoms  wear; 

Sequins,  pistoles,  broad  gold  doubloons, 

Dull  burnished  silver  bars, 
Carbuncles,  emeralds,  diamonds  bright 

That  sparkle  like  the  stars; 

Pieces  of  eight,  rich  silver  plate, 
Fair  pearls  like  shining  tears, 

With  many  a  dainty  trinket  torn 
From  shrieking  beauty's  ears; 

Brave  rings  with  fingers  in  them  yet,     . 

All  fleshless,  black  and  dried, — 
A  grisly  harvest,  cutlass  reaped 

From  blue-veined  hands  of  pride; 

(forty-seven) 


The    Call    of    California 


Bejeweled  blades  of  damascene 

From  Spam's  dark,  bloody  sod 
And  great  rose  rubies,  once  the  eyes 

Of  some  tusked,  snouted  god; 

Gilt  crucifixes,  candlesticks, 

Basons  of  beaten  gold 
And  chalices  with  diamond  studs 

Lapped  in  a  cloudy  fold 
Of  laces  wrought  by  pallid  nuns 

In  Spanish  convents  cold. 

With  furious  haste  such  splendid  spoil 

They  heap  together  there 
Would  buy  thrones,  virtues,  souls  of  men, — 

St.  Peter's  ivory  chair! 

Yet  when  each  one  his  share  surveys 

It  shows  so  mean  and  small, 
In  every  envious  heart  is  hatched 

The  will  to  win  it  all. 

Greed  shows  its  hissing,  venomed  head, 
Bursts  forth  each  ancient  hate; 

Not  one  can  meet  another's  eye 
Nor  trust  his  trusted  mate. 

Like  wolves  they  snarl,  like  foul  fiends  roar 

Around  that  gloomy  cave, 
Nor  hear  the  whistling  wind  without, 

Nor  heed  the  lapping  wave. 

Each  tears  his  fellow's  cursing  throat 

Each  lunging  blade  is  red; 
Till   'round   that  mocking  treasure   lie 

But  dying  men  or  dead. 

(forty -eight) 


Other    Poems    of    the    West 


In  crimson  pools  that  slowly  creep 

Along  the  trampled  mire 
A  little  space  the  torches  hiss 

Like  serpents  ringed  with  flre; 

Then  darkness  seals  each  staring  eye 

In  that  unhallowed  grave, — 
Their  requiem  but  the  wailing  wind, 

The  moaning  of  the  wave. 

Awhile  the  keen-eyed  buzzard  wheels 

Above  the  cavern's  door, 
And  horny  crabs  slide  in  and  out 

Across  the  fetid  floor; 

The  gaunt  coyote  snuffing  comes 

Then  softly  slinks  away, 
While  slowly  rots  the  pirate  ship 

Upon  the  lonely  bay. 

The  years  slip  by,  then  comes  a  day, 

Tense,  boding,  hot  and  still, 
No  sound  is  heard  from  beast  or  bird 

Along  the  hazy  hill; 

In  whirls  of  dust  the  dry  leaves  dance 
Beside  the  listening  shore, — 

How  shrunk  with  fear  the  sea-bird's  cry, 
How  loud  the  ocean's  roar! 

Then  suddenly  the  wooded  hills 
The  earth's  firm  pillars  rock 

And  shuddering  peaks  as  in  a  fit 
Their  knees  together  knock; 

(forty-nine) 


The     Call     of     Californi 


The  ancient  cliffs  plunge  in  the  deep, 
A  thousand  thunders  sound, — 

Till  where  the  sea-fowl  fed  her  young 
But  boiling  waves  are  found! 

Gone  is  the  pirate's  cave,  their  gold 

Is  scattered  far  and  wide 
Along  the  careless  ocean's  floor 

The  sport  of  every  tide. 

Some  little  time  their  polished  bones 
Are  strewn  along  the  shore 

Then  from  the  memory  of  man 
They  pass  for  evermore. 


Calvary 


>rtHEN  our  dear  Lord  in  deadly  sorrow 

\\J          bound 

Shed  blood  and  water  from  his  heart's  deep 

wound, 

A  little  lad  stood,  boy  like  in  the  shade- 
By  the  rude  Cross  and  Royal  Victim  made — 
And  whirled  his  toy  around  in  thoughtless 

glee 

Not  knowing  Him  who  bled  for  you  and  me: 
A  bird  sprang  twittering  from  the  grassless 

sod 

And  perched  upon  the  Tree  that  bore  our  God, 
Singing  its  sweet  song  to  the  fading  day 
While  Jesus'  heart  blood  dripped  full  fast 

away. 

(fifty) 


Other    Poems    of    the    West 


Old  Mexico 


QLD  Mexico  of  the  long  ago, 
Land  of  the  silver  rills, 
vanished  centuries  linger  yet 
Amid  thy  foot-worn  hills. 

From  thy  snows  and  pines,  thy  dark,  deep 
mines, 

Down  to  thy  tropic  sea 
There  is  never  a  thing  a  man  might  ask 

That  may  not  be  found  in  thee! 

Silver  and  gold  in  thy  ridges  rolled, 
Health  from  thy  snow-capped  peaks, 

Beautiful  women  with  flashing  eyes 
And  sun-kissed  olive  cheeks; 

Culture  that  comes  from  the  Spanish  Moors 

Of  a  thousand  years  ago; 
And  customs  that  come  from  the  yellow  East 

But  how — no  man  may  know. 

Faces  as  fair  as  ever  were  seen 

In  any  rose  gardens  of  earth; 
And    the    slant-eyed,    squat-nosed     Mongol 
breed, — 

What  land  first  saw  their  birth? 

Hieroglyphs  older  than  Norsemen's  runes, — 

Palaces  ancient  as  Tyre, 
Where  the  smiling  child  of  the  sun  today 

Bakes  his  corn-cakes  on  the  fire. 

Romance  and  mystery  over  it  all. 

Mystery  always  and  ever, 
Old  as  the  eldest  of  Egypt's  gods, — 

Will  the  light  come  ever,  never? 
(fifty-one) 


The    Call    of    Californi 


The  Death  Pool  at  La  Brea 

DO  song  birds  hover  about  its  edge, 
Where    sad    winds    sigh    through    the 
stiff,  brown  sedge; 

No  fleet  wings  brush  with  a  wild  bird's  grace 
The  sullen  tide  of  the  Death  Pool's  face. 

But  ever  it  lies  there  still  and  cold, 
Wickedly  waiting,  and  old — so  old; 
Chilling  the  warmth  of  the  genial  sky 
Like  a  Gorgon's  face  with  its  lidless  eye, 
The  haunt  of  horror,  a  place  of  fear, 
Through  many  a  dumb,  unnumbered  year. 

Up  from  the  cold,  dark  chambers  of  death 
Oozes  its  pestilent,  bubbling  breath; 
Wrapped  in  the  folds  of  its  stiffened  elime, 
The  bones  of  monarchs  of  ancient  time — 
Of  huge,  strange  creatures  of  monstrous  girth, 
Lords  of  the  primitive  manless  earth! 
What    secrets    locked    in    that    deep,    dark 

grave, 
What  wonders  hid  'neath  the  thick,  black 

wave, 
What  dreadful  shapes  here  have  mirrored 

been 

That  never  by  human  eye  were  seen! 
When,  under  the  old,  old  primal  law 
Of  bloody  muzzle  and  crimson  claw, 
The  saber-tooth  and  the  great  cave-bear 
Tore  the  trumpeting  mastodon  there; 
While    green-eyed    dragons    with    leathern 

wings 
Screamed  o'er  the  strife  of  the  jungle  kings. 

(fifty-two) 


Other    Poems     of    the    West 


Mangos  de  Manila 


de  Manila"— 

Hark  to  the  mellow,  call, 
angos  de  Manila," 
Most  luscious  fruit  of  all. 

"Mangos  de  Ma-nee-la"  — 
I  stop  him  in  the  shade, 

The  Aztec,  brown  "frutero," 
And  soon  the  sale  is  made. 

"Son  muy  dulces,  jefe," 

Is  what  he  says  to  me, 
"They're  very  sweet  and  juicy"  — 

The  truth  we  soon  shall  see. 

No  mango  forks  are  handy, 
So  peel  them  with  your  knife; 

Say,  stranger,  did  you  ever 
Eat  better  in  your  life? 

The  slippery  fruit  a-dropping 
Great  gouts  of  liquid  gold:  — 

Just  shut  your  eyes  and  swallow 
And  dream  of  days  of  old. 

You  hear  the  fountain  tinkling, 
A  strange  speech  meets  your  ear, 

The  mango  on  your  palate 
Brings  it  all  to  you  here. 

ft  somehow  draws  you  nearer 
To  India  and  the  East 

(fifty-three) 


The    Call    of    California 


To  Afric's  tawny  jungles 
A  thousand  years  at  least. 

"Mangos  de  Manila," 

A  golden  link  to  all 
Of   good   Haroun-al-Raschid, 

And  muezzin's  plaintive  call, — 

Arabian  Nights  and  hasheesh, 
With  all  our  childhood  knew 

Of  tales  from  land  of  faery 
Broidered  with  gold  and  hlue. 

The  harem's  marble  lattice, 
Where  musky  south  winds  sigh 

In  "Mangos  de  Ma-nee-la" 
Our  swart  frutero's  cry. 


Grief 


T  a  sunken  lake's  edge  in  the  dreary 

night, 
tn  a  cypress  silvered  by  the  dead  moon's 

light, 

With  rain-chilled  nest  and  heart  all  desolate, 
A  widowed  dove  sits,  mourning  for  her  mate. 


Kismet 


[WAS  Kismet  that  ever  I  knew  him ; 

'Twas  Kismet  that  first  drew  me  to 
him, 
And  for  Kismet  I  loved  him  and  slew  him! 

(fifty-four) 


Other    Poems     of    the    West 


A  Norther  in  Veracruz 


the   bluff   and   boisterous   North 
Wind 

Oomes  to  woo  the  Sunny  South 
And  a  thousand  roaring  thunders 
Are  the  kisses  of  his  mouth; 

When  the  sea  birds  seek  a  shelter 
In  some  battered,  splintered  rock 

And  the  walls  of  Juan  Ullua 

Tremble  'neath  the  surge's  shock; 

When  the  sails  are  blown  to  tatters, 

Timbers  start  in  every  joint, 
And   the  grey,  bare-headed  helmsman    • 

"Holds  her  down  another  point," 

When  the  booming  winds  of  heaven 

Heap  the  surges  o'er  the  deck 
And  the  tiger  leaping  lightnings 

Show  the  crushed  and  battered  wreck; 

When  the  shark-toothed  reefs  are  grinning, 
Waiting  for  their  wounded  prey; 

As  the  seething,  rushing  waters 
Urge  the  doomed  ships  down  the  bay; 

When  the  demons  of  the  ocean 

Grip  the  goblins  of  the  sky 
And  the  devils  to  the  landward 

Fling  their  sandy  arms  on  high; 

When  the  rain  like  Mauser  bullets 
Hisses  from  the  inky  gloom; 

(fifty-  five) 


The    Call    of    Californi 


And  the  "Pale  Horse,"  Death  bestridden, 
Gallops  where  the  breakers  boom; 

When  the  sailors  pray  the  Virgin, 
And  the  captain  makes  a  vow, 

And  the  fisher  boats  are  scudding 
Anywhere  and  anyhow; 

When  amid  the  Gulf's  wild  fury 
And  the  screams  from  whitened  lips 

Coral  reefs  are  ground  to  powder 
As  they  grind  the  groaning  ships; 

When  the  devil  takes  the  tiller 
And  his  demons  rule  the  deck 

And  the  ooze  from  bloody  corpses 
Streams  and  reddens  o'er  the  wreck; 

When  each  skipper  out  to  seaward 
Trembles  in  his  sodden  shoes 

Then  you  know  we  have  a  "Norther," 
Southward  here  in  Veracruz. 


(fifty-six) 


Other    Poems    of    the    West 


At  the  Ruins  of  Mitla 

H  MOURNFUL  hollow  in  the  old   grey 
hills 
Where  never  a  bird  its  glad   sweet  music 

trills, 

We  shiver  in  the  sunlight  for  a  spell 
Still  broods  o'er  Mictlan, — gloomy  mouth  of 
Hell! 

The  narrow  streamlet  as  of  old  runs  on, 
But  they  who  built  these  palaces  are  gone; 
They  came,  they  went^  nor   left  one   word 

behind, 
We  search  and  dig  but  only  questions  find. 

The  air  is  chill  with  voices  of  the  dead, 
But  not  a  word  we  catch  of  all  they  said;  — 
That  slant-eyed,  squat-hipped  folk  of  ancient 

day, 
Long  since  returned  to  primal  dust  and  clay. 

We  bow  our  heads  to  pass  the  temple  door 
Where  the  plumed  high-priest  strode  erect 

before; 

Each  monolith  still  fitted  to  its  groove 
Which    time    noi*    earthquake    one    hair's 

breadth  could  move. 

A  pigmy  race  of  men  Of  mighty  dreams 
Reared  these  quaint  carven  walls,  these  pon 
derous  beams, 
Wrought  patiently  in  tireless  feeble  strength 

(fifty-seven) 


The    Call    of    California 


Till  the  huge  capstone  lay  in  place  at  length, 
Showing  through  all  the  centuries  it  should 

last 
How    here    some    nameless    Indian   Angelo 

passed. 

*      *      * 

Glad  that  we  came,  we  gladly  turn  away 
Back  to  the  wholesome  breath  of  living  day; 
The  long  whip  cracks,  the  creaking  coach 

appears 
To  bear  us  from  these  ghosts  of  weird,  wan 

years. 


In  the  Cathedral  Towers 
at  Dawn 

the  cathedral  towers  I  stand  at  dawn, 
The  slumber  breaking  bells  have  but 
egun 

Their  silver  clashing  and  the  dallying  day 
Comes  slowly  traveling  upward  from  the  sea. 

Beneath  me  all  the  streets  are  half  astir 
With  pious  life,  —  servants  and  served  alike, 
Close  hooded  from  the  sharp  insidious  air 
Bend  churchward,  heavenward,  by  a  weary 

way, 

Thorn  set,  tear  wet,  by  sin  and  sorrow  urged. 
Below  there  toil-worn  mothers  faint  and  wan 

(fifty  -eight) 


Other    Poems    of    the    West 


Suckling    at    withered    breasts    their    puny 

babes; 
And    street-worn    men    with    poverty    their 

bride, 

Wake  foodless  in  this  city  of  the  sun: 
While  others,  sons  of  Fortune's  fickle  smile, 
Who  never  toiled  nor  hungered,  calmly  sleep 
And  over  all  the  mercy  of  our  God! 

Merrily  ring  the  great  Cathedral  bells 
Over  the  life-sick  multitude  below; 
No  voice  for  them  calling  from  airy  steeps 
Of  heights  celestial,  bidding  them  return 
Out,  onward,  forward,  upward  to  their  God. 

O'erhead  the  beauty  of  the  morning  stars 
Down  there  the  endless  misery  of  man! 
The  fresh  winds  blow  from  out  the  great  salt 

sea 
And  down  from  scarped  and  thunder  riven 

peaks 

But  not  for  them,  nor  any  voice  of  morn 
Comes  caroling  from  dewy  meadow  grass. 

Alone  and  poor,  poor  and  alone  they  live 
Hopeless  and   songless  in  this  bright  sun- 
land, 

And  die  at  last  sad-faced  and  hollow-eyed 
Mantled  in  Misery.    Brethren,  pray  for  such. 


(fifty-nine) 


The    Call    of    California 

Titian  s  "Entombment  of 
Christ" 

(Tzintzuntzan) 

old   grey   church   all   full    of   other 

years, 
1th  knee-worn  pavement  stained  by  bitter 

tears; 

Sunlight  without  but  graveyard  gloom  within 
The   house   where    God   forgives   His    chil 
dren's  sin. 

A  charnel  odor  loads  the  still,  cold  air 
As  if  the  spirits  of  the  dead  were  there, 
Until  awe-stricken  by  the  half-lit  gloom 
We  shudder  as  though  shut  within  a  tomb* 

But  suddenly  a  window  opens  wide, 
And  afternoon  pours  in  its  golden  tide 
Showing  us  there  upon  the  old  stone  wall 
Of  Titian's  genius  masterpiece  of  all. 

A  pallid  Christ  all  mutely  tombward  borne 
By  faithful  hearts  so  dumb  and  sorrow-torn, 
A  few  disciples  there,  by  fear  late  driven — 
A  Magdalene  and  Mother— anguish  riven. 

O!  pallid  Christ,  bruised  by  the  Cross  and 

Thorn, 

O!  faithful  hearts,  no  longer  may  ye  mourn, 
The  dear  Lord  sleepeth,  soon  to  wake  again 
And  set  His  kingdom  in  the  hearts  of  men! 

(sixty) 


Other    Poems    of    the    West 


Old  Gal  Beaver 

yuh  listen  to  my  ditty  I  would  have 
yuh  fer  to  know 
ow  old  Cal  Beaver  he  resided  long  ago 
In  a  mud'n  puncheon  cabin  on  the  banks  o' 

Bitter  Crik 
With  his  second  wife,  called  Jinny,  kinda 

droopy  like'n  sick. 
With  a  gee,  Buck,  haw,  Buck  dumpty  diddle 

dee, 

His  buckskin  leggins  flappin'  down  around 
his  knee. 

He  had  a  swarm  o'  young  ones,  they  wuz 
wild  as  ary  quail, 

A  rifle  'n  a  dipper-gourd  a  hangin'  frum  a 
nail; 

A  pair  o'  bronco  milkin'  cows  some  ornry 
sheep'n  goats, 

A  span  o'  wild  cayuses  n'  a  bunch  o'  squeal- 
in'  shotes. 

With  a  gee,  Buck,  etc. 

A    dozen    brindle    hounds    would    come    a 

yelpin'  when  he'd  yell, 
'N  when  they  had  a  old  coon  treed  it  sure 

were  merry  hell. 
He  fed  on  plug  tubaker  frum  his  childhood's 

early  morn, 
'N  loved  his  jug  o'  likker  made  uv  lightnin' 

juice  'n  corn. 
With  a  gee,  Buck,  etc. 

(sixty-one) 


The      Call      of      California 


He  shied  at  any  sort  o'  toil,  wuz  easy  over- 

het, 
But  he   could  swing  the  gals   all  night  at 

ev'ry  dance--yuh  bet; 
The   preachers  wuz  his  pizen  though  he'd 

bid  'em  "light  'n  tie," 
Fur  they  talked  religion  while  they  et  his 

Jinny's  "pone"  'n  "fry." 
With  a  gee,  Buck,  etc. 

He  didn't  have  no  neighbors  closeter  than  a 

mile  'r  so, 
Fur  it  peeved  him  when  he  heard  another 

feller's  roosters  crow. 
He   "savvied"   owls   'n  all   the   "signs"   fer 

weather,  luck  'n  sich, 
Frum    markin'    calves    'n    cuttin'    corns    to 

bein'  "water-witch." 
With  a  gee,  Buck,  etc. 

His  biggest  gal,  Lucindy,  she  wuz  pink  'n 

white  'n  tall, 
'N  purty  as  a  limb  o'  peaches  hangin*  by 

the  wall; 
She  loved  a  feller  down  the  crik,  the  same 

wuz  Buck  McGee, — 
The  opposite  uv  her  old  dad,  which  were 

the  rub,  yuh  see. 
With  a  gee,  Buck,  etc. 

He  wore  store  clothes  'n  slicked  his  hair,  'n 

didn't  drink  nur  chaw, 
'N  loved  Lucindy  fit  t-uh  bust,  but  couldn't 

please  her  paw. 

(sixty-two) 


Other    Poems    of    the    West 


So  they  determined  for  to  wed,  her  pap  a 

sayin'  "no," 
'N  live  forever  to  the  tune  uv  "Rosin  on  the 

Bow." 
With  a  gee,  Buck,  etc. 

They  waited  till  the  "sign  wuz  right"  'n  Cal 

were    limber   drunk, — 
The  night  the  crazy  Chinymun  lone-hacded 

skun  the  skunk — 
He  skun  it  smilin'   to  hisself:    "Him  belly 

good,"  he  sed, 
While  th'  air  in  that  vicinitee  grew  yaller, 

green  'n  red. 
With  a  gee,  Buck,  etc. 

'N  while  Cal  nursed  his  jug  that  night  "to 

take  away  the  taste," 
Buck  vamoosed  with  his  lady  love,  which 

likewise  wuz  in  haste. 
Some    thirty    mile    away    they    roused     a 

preacher  out  o'  bed 
Who   married   them    in   gospel    shape, — Lu- 

cindy  blushin'  red. 
With  a  gee,  Buck,  etc. 

Now  listen  to  my  narrative  'n  hearken  to 

my  song, 
As  things  begin  to  limber  up'n  mosey  right 

along, 
Fer   Cal,   when   he  were   sobered   some,   'n 

found  his  angel  child 
Had  dared  to  flee  with  Buck  McGee,  he  sar- 

tinly  wuz  riled. 
With  a  gee,  Buck,  etc. 

(sixty-three) 


The      Call      of      California 


But  first  he  quenched  his  burnin'  thirst,  he 

sure  did  likker  up, 
Then  ripped   'n  tore  like   sum  old  boar   'r 

hydrefobious  pup; 
His  langwidge  was.  sulfurius,  n'  cum  with 

such  a  rush, 
That  Jinny  'n  the  kids  they  scooted  pronto 

fer  the  brush. 
With  a  gee,  Buck,  etc. 

He  saddled  up  a  "pinto  bronc,"  'n  cinched 

him  on  his  gun, 
His    rifle    crost    the    saddle-horn,    'n    then 

away  he  skun, 
A  snortin'  hell'n  burnin'  flames,  his  hair  a 

streamin'  free, 
'N  yellin'   as  he   pelted  by,  he'd   "git  that 

Buck  McGee." 
With  a  gee,  Buck,  etc. 

He  used  the  quirt  at  ev'ry  jump,  a  humpin' 

right  along, 
A  moanin'  'n  a  grievin'  hard  'n  thinkin'  uv 

his  wrong; 
'N  sorta  bellerin'  to  hisself:    "I've  lost  my 

darlin'  child, 
By  Buck  McGee,  so  cruelee  my  daughter's 

bin  beguiled." 
With  a  gee,  Buck,  etc. 

But  when  he  cum  where  they  wuz  at    the 

sun  a  shinin'  bright, 

Lucindy  met   him   at  the   door   and   helped 
him  to  alight: 

(sixty-four) 


Other    Poems    of    the    West 


"It's  over,  paw,  we're  married  now,  yuh 

might  as  well  agree, 
There  hain't  no  call  fer  shootin'  irons, — I'm 

Missus  Buck  McGee." 
With  a  gee,  Buck,  etc. 

Then:  "Howdy,  pop,  shake  hands,"  says 
Buck,  "your  lovely  daughter  there, 

I  chased  her  on  the  level,  Cal,  I  roped  her 
on  the  square; 

Cum,  rinse  your  tusks,  yuh  old  galoot,  'n 
eat  along  with  us, 

Yuh  leather-bellied  crokydile,  yuh  pizen- 
spittin'  cuss." 

With  a  gee,  Buck,  etc. 

Which  were  a  friendly  sort  o'  talk  that  Cal 

rejoiced  to  hear, 
'N  so  be  ceased  his  bitter  moan   'n  dried 

the  drippin  tear; 
Lucindy  meanwhile  tellin'  them  the  vittles 

they  wuz  hot, — 
Corn  pone  n'  sweet  putaters  fried,  n'  rabbit 

in  the  pot. 
With  a  gee,  Buck,  etc. 

'N  when  Cal  hit  the  trail  fer  home,  beneath 

the  meller  moon, 
He    felt    at   peace    with    all    the   world    'n 

hummed  a  old  dance  toon; 
'Twere  mighty  good  to  hear  his  hounds  a 

yelpin'  at  the  door, — 
'N   so,   goodnight   to   one   'n   all,   fer  there 

hain't  nothin'  more. 

(sixty-five) 


The      Call      of      California 


With  a  gee,  Buck,  haw  Buck,  dumpty  did 
dle  dee, 

His  buckskin  leggins  flappin'  down  around 
his  knee. 


To  the  Folks  Back  East 

,HEN  itfs  ten  degrees  below, 

And  you're  shoveling  at  the  snow, 
re  have  eighty  in  the  shade,  out  here:  — 
When  the  blizzard  'round  you  roars, 
We  are  dining  out  of  doors, 
And   the   mocking  bird«   are   singing,   loud 
and  clear. 

When  you  sit  upon  the  stoves 
We  are  in  our  orange  groves, 
Plucking  golden  apples  of  Hesperides: 
Roses  blooming  everywhere 
Shed  their  incense  on  the  air, 
While  you  cough  and  shiver,  snuff  and  stamp 
and  freeze. 

Better  sell  a  bunch  of  shoals 
Or  a  stable  full  of  oats, 
Buy  a  ticket  for  this  sunny  land  of  ours; 
Leave  the   cruel   sleet  and   snow, 
Come  where  our  soft  breezes  blow 
Over  leagues  of  orchard  drifted  deep  with 
flowers. 

(sixty-six) 


Other    Poems    of    the    West 


The  Market  Place  in  Puebla 

KNOW  the  markets  well,  of  every 

land, 

rom  Niji-novgorod  to  Samarkand; 
Ireland,  Spain,  France,  old  England,  Turkey, 

Greece, 
Their    spuds,    oil,    wine,    ale,    harems,    bad 

police; 

So  picturesque,  quaint,  curious,  gaily  vile,— 
But  Mexico  shows  yet  a  different  style. 

If  you  the  Puebla  market  place  would  see, 
My  gentle  tourist  friend,  please  follow  me; 
Tread  in  my  steps,  cling  to  my  hand,  and 

hear 
The  stunning  babel  rise,  but  have  no  fear. 

Wide,  high  and  long,  the  market  place  you 
view, 

With  a  thousand  different  smells,  and  each 
one  new; 

A  thousand  husky  voices  raised  on  high, 

That  split  the  very  rafters  of  the  sky! 

Things  never  known,  but  in  a  hideous  dream 

Are  all  about  you,  yet  you  must  not-  scream. 

On  every  side  the  simple  booths  we  find, 

Stocked  with  the  goods  that  suit  the  public 
mind:  — 

Bott-les,  cheap  combs,  clay  pots  and  look 
ing  glasses, 

Ribbons  and  laces  for  the  Indian  lasses; 

Horrific  ballads  a  centavo  each, 

(sixty-seven) 


The      Call      of      California 


And    dolorous   tales    to    make    the    women 

screech; 
Such  as  were  hawked  in  London's   streets 

we  guess, 

Under  the  merry  rule  of  good  Queen  Bess; 
Herbs,  powders,  roots  and  armadillo  shells 
Potions  and  plasters,  and  elusive  smells, 
Brooms,   brushes,  ropes,  metates  and  petates, 
Ollas,  and  jarros,  and  huge  tompiates. 
Gay    handkerchiefs    and    strings    of    gilded 

beads, 
And  catechisms  for  the  Indian's  needs; 

Coffins,  salt  fish,  wax  candles,  strings  of 
onions, 

And  holy  oils  to  cure  your  warts  or  bunions. 

Straw  hats,  white  cotton  shirts  and  pan 
taloons, 

Pineapples,  peanuts,  and  cheap,  red  bal 
loons; 

Rebozoes,  blue  and  striped,  peppers,  babies; 

And  mangy  curs,  flea  gnawn,  that  hint  of 
rabies; 

Potatoes,  pifias,  turkeys,  melons,  rice, 

And  pious,  whining  beggar,  hunting  lice, 

Who  begs  you  for  the  love  of  gracious 
heaven, 

To  share  with  him  what  God  to  you  hath 
given; 

Shows  his  shrunk  limb  or  loathsome  sore 
and  prays 

The  Virgin's  blessing  on  you  all  your  days; 

Fondas   all  redolent  of  that   sweet  ragout. 

Mole  with  turkey;   heavenly  Mexic  stew; 

(sixty-eight) 


Other    Poems    of    the    West 


Bare-legged  "MInnehahas,"  all  forlorn, 
With    linen    sadly    scant,    and    soiled,    and 

worn 
Fried  bovine  entrails,  sheep's  heads  boiled 

and  baked; 

And  as  a  proof  the  latter  are  not  "faked," 
Patches  of  wool  remain,  the  eyes  stand  out 
From  the  grim,  grinning  skulls — no  room 

for  doubt. 
Great   heaps    of   corn    in   purple,   blue    and 

white; 
Skins  full  of  pulque,  the  peon's  delight; 

Vociferous  parrots,  gourds,  and  flowers  and 

honey, 
And    there    a    bawling    child    has    lost    its 

money. 
"By  gosh,  it   smells,  and  looks,  and   is  so 

funny," 

So  says  the  gaping  tourist,  wonder  eyed, 
Whirled  hither,  thither,  on  the  eddying  tide ; 
And  while  a  thousand  voices  scream  their 

wares, 
Blue-nosed    Penobscot    coughs,    and    snuffs 

and  stares. 

But  now  the  ancient  junk  shop  comes  in 
view; 

Rejoice,  oh  tourist,  but  be   wary,  too; 

The  bright-eyed  junk  man,  though  of  for 
eign  speech, 

Knows  all  the  modem  arts  that  thou  wouldst 
teach ; 

Retreat,  advance,  roll  up  his  eyes  and  shrug 

(sixty-nine) 


The      Call      of      California 


His  shoulders  o'er  some  "Maximilian  rug;" 
Sigh,   swear  and   lie,   with   hand  upon  his 

heart;  — 
The  Puebla  junk-shop  man  well  knows  his 

part. 

But  cast  we  now  our  eyes  about  the  room, 
Where  sits  the   junk  man   in   has   odorous 

gloom ; 

Old  bottles,  soldier  caps,  tin  cans  and  spurs, 
Screws,  nuts,  bolts,  locks,  keys,  chains,  and 

feline  furs, 
Old  broken    watches,    clocks,    fly-speckled 

'books ; 

Torn    Guadalupe    chromos,    halters,  hooks, 
Frying-pans,  fiddles,  false  money,  monkey- 
wrenches  ; 

Jewsharps,  accordeons,  and  opera  wenches 
In  dirty  photos;  brass  rods,  shovels,  leather, 
Tooth     brushes,     combs,     syringes — all     to 
gether. 

Bottles  of  medicine,  but  minus  label:  — 
Buy,    use    them,    live   thereafter,    if    you're 

able; 
Stuffed  birds,  skulls,  almanacs,  and  keyless 

locks; 

Candlesticks,  cartridges  and  old  odd  socks; 
Old  flint-lock  pistols,    pewter    spoons,    false 

hair, 
Old  wigs,  bird  cages,  and  sword-blades  are 

there ; 
Umbrella,     ribs,     saints     headless,     bullets, 

belts, 
Tea  pots,  pope's  pictures,  spittoons,  and  the 

pelts 

(seventy) 


Other    Poems    of.    the    West 


Of  goats,  old  saddles,  bridles,  broken  toys, 
Such  are  the  junk  man's  riches, — tourist's 
joys. 

But  he  who  kens  the  secret  of  the  maze; 
Skilled   in   the   devious   and   dark  winding 

ways, 

Oft  times  will  chance  upon  a  treasure  rare, 
Half  hidden  in  the  dust  and  darkness  there. 
Some  fat'  old  tome  in  yellow  vellumed  gold, 
In  Gothic  letter,  redolent  of  the  mold 
Of  cloister   cell,   and   those   dim,   vanished 

years 
Of  Aldine,  Plantin,  and  the  Elzevirs. 


(seventy-one) 


The      Call      of      California 


La  Casa  de  Contenta 

HA  Casa  de  Contenta 
Is  by  a  shady  way, 

Where  flowers  bloom  and  glad  birds  sing 
Through  all  the  long  bright  day. 

The  peaks,  like  brown  Franciscans, 

Their  benedictions  shed, 
Where  Casa  de  Contenta 

Uplifts   its   humble   head. 

Here  oft  the  idle  breezes 

Will  pause  awhile  to  play 
With  butterflies  and  thrushes 

On  many  a  blooming  spray. 

Here  shadows  cool  and  quiet 

Their  arms  about  us  fold, 
Where  apricots  their  boughs  bend  down 

With  fruit  of  nugget  gold. 

La  Casa  de  Contenta 

Is  like  the  wild  bird's  nest, 
Safe  hidden  from  the  careless  throng 

Or  idly  curious  guest. 

But  for  the  friends  who  find  it, — 

And  many  such  there  are, — 
La  Casa  de  Contenta 

Hath  neither  lock  nor  bar. 

But  ever  words  of  welcome, 
And  ever  kindly  looks, 

(seventy-two) 


Other    Poems     of    the    West 


And  ev'rywhere,  like  healing  balm, 
The  ministry  of  books: 

Till  he  who  tarries  lingers, 
And  lingering  still  would  stay, 

In  Casa  de  Oontenta 
Forever  and  a  day. 


Our  Margaret 

DER  willing  little  hands  are  still, 
Her  eager  little  feet  are  cold, 
And  mingled  with  earth's  ancient  mold, 
Her  loving  heart  is  dumb  and  chill. 

But  surely  our  dear  Margaret 
Who  left  us  long,  long  years  ago, 
Is  living  somewhere  still  we  know, 
Though  much  is  mystery  to  us  yet. 

Though  wild  birds  sing  above  her  head 
And  o'er  her  breast  white  roses  bloom, 
In  some  far  distant  radiant  room 
Our  little  Margaret's  steps  are  led. 

By  some  fair  river's  silver  flow 
She  listens  to  the  nightingale 
And  thinks  on  us,  —  she  cannot  fail 
To  think  on  those  who  loved  her  so. 

(seventy-three) 


The      Call      of      California 


Day  Dreams 


HIKE  music  of  a  fountain  in  the  forest 
Remembrance    of   the    day   returns 
to  me 

When,  underneath  the  oaks,  with  my  beloved 
I  carved  our  names  upon  an  anicent  tree. 

The  deep,  green  glade  was  languorous  with 

Summer; 
Down  from  the  hillside's  thick-set  chappa- 

ral 
Came  sadly  sweet  the  wood  dove's  plaintive 

mourning, 
A   sentinel  quail's  insistent,  clamorous  call. 

Stilletto-like  the  vexed  cicadas'  chirping 
Shrilled  piercingly;  o'erhead  a  lone  hawk 

screamed 
Then    silence, — till    we    heard    the    forest 

breathing; 

So   still  it  was   we  were   as   those   who 
dreamed. 

Aye,  dreamers  were  we,  dear,  that  day  to 
gether; 

Dreaming  of  all  the  wondrous  years  to  be; 
Years  filled  with  glowing  pages,  love  indited, 

In  gold  and  purple  writ,  by  you  and  me. 

What  visions  splendid  then  were  ours,  my 

darling, 
The  cloud-built  castles  of  a  love-lit  day; 

( seventy-four) 


Other    Poems    of    the    West 


A  brief  space  gleaming  with   the   hues  of 

heaven, — 

Too  soon  but  mist  and  dripping  skies  of 
grey, 

Our  Spanish  argosies,  all  treasure  laden, 
Breasting   the    shining   seas    with    silken 

sails, 
Long  since  have  sunk  beneath  the  clashing 

billows, 

Whelmed  by  the  bitter  fog  and  whistling 
gales. 

The  wrinkled  oak  that  heard  our  vows,  is 

fallen, 
The   woodland    path    amid    the    friendly 

trees, 
Where  long  we  lingered  hand   in  hand,  is 

vanished ; 

All's    gone    or    changed,    save    you — and 
memories; 

Save  you,  sweetheart,  save  you,  my  bonny 

Helen, 
Save  you,  dear  wife,  true  comrade  all  the 

way; 

All  else  may  go  so  I  but  hold  you,  change 
less, 

Your  heart  to  mine,  forever,  come  what 
may. 


(seventy-five) 


The      Call      of      California 


Hand  in  Hand 

GOME  sit  by  me,  my  own  true  love, 
In  the  soft  firelight  glow, 
And  let  me  hold  your  hand  in  mine 

As  in  the  long  ago: 
Together  hand  in  hand,  my  dear, 

As  in  the  days  of  yore, 
When   all   your  years   were   scant   sixteen, 

And  mine  were  but  a  score. 
Your  brown  hair  then  was  rippling  gold, 

Your  cheeks  were  like  the  rose; 
Your  laughing  eyes  like  pools  of  light, 

Where   deep,   still   water   flows. 
Your  dewy  lips  like  honey-combs, 

Your  hands  so  soft  and  white, 
Your  voice  was  melody  to  me, — 

You  were  my  life's  delight. 
Your  heart  was  true,  your  vows  were  few, 

But  oh,  so  deep  and  sure; 
Your  radiant  love  like  lily  buds, — 

So  virgin  chaste  and  pure. 
And  when  you  gave  your  lips  to  me, 

That  shining  April  day, 
It  linked  our  lives  together,  love, 

Forever  and  for  aye: 
Forever  and  for  aye,  sweet  wife, 

Come  shadow  or  come  shine, 
The  wonder  of  that  mystic  hour 

Shall  thrill   this  heart   of  mine. 
Not  two  score  years  have  dimmed  the  glow, 

Nor  brushed  the  bloom  away; — 
I  loved  you  then,  I  love  you  now, 

My  sweetheart  still,  today. 

(seventy-six) 


Other    Poems    of    the    West 


The  Ship  of  Good  Fortune 

B  FAIRY  ship  is  sailing, 
A  sailing  o'er  the  sea; 
Ta-ka-ra  Bu-ne,  lucky  ship, 
To  bring  good  gifts  to  me. 

In  quaint  Japan,  whenever 

Ta-ka-ra  Bu-ne  comes 
Old  men  and  boys  make  merry  noise 

And  pound  their  peach- wood  drums; 

The  maidens,  crowned  with  blossoms, 
Soft  voiced  as  summer's  breeze, 

With  song  and  play  dance  all  the  day 
Beneath  the  cherry  trees. 

For  in  that  ship  of  Fortune 
The  Seven  Kind  Gods  are  seen, 

In  cloth  of  gold  and  silver  dressed 
And  silks  of  wondrous  sheen: 

Eb-i-su,  god  of  plenty, 
With  whom  there  is  no  lack, 
A  basket  crammed  with  crimson  fish 
Is  slung  upon  his  back. 

Dai-ko-ku,  lord  of  riches, 

Shakes  from  his  magic  maul 

Bright  golden  coins  and  children  try 
To  catch  them  .as  they  fall. 

Ben-zai-ten,  Queen  of  Beauty, 
Sits  on  her  dragon  chair; 

(seventy-seven) 


The      Call      of      California 


In  one  fair  hand  the  key  of  love, 
In  one  a  jewel  rare. 

And  there  Pu-ku-ro-ku-jin, 

His  wrinkled  head  so  tall ; 
With  staff  and  crane  and  magic  fan, 

The  wisest  god  of  all. 

Bish-a-mon,  god  of  glory, 
For  whom  the  warriors  fight, 

His  lacquered  armor  shines  afar, 
His  spear  a  beam  of  light. 

With  snow-white  beard,  Ju-ro-jin, 

The  god  of  long  life,  he; 
With  mitred  cap  and  crooked  staff, 

A  tortoise  at  his  knee. 

The  children's  god  is  Ho-tei, 
With  bursting  bag  of  toys, 

The  fattest,  jolliest  god  of  all; 
Who  loves  the  girls  and  boys. 

Come  quickly,  ship  of  fortune, 
Across  the  dark  blue  sea; 

Spread  wide  your  silken  silver  sails 
And  waft  good  gifts  to  me. 

For  earth  is  full  of  dying 
And  bloody  tears  and  pain; 

Oh!  come,  bright  fairy  ship  and  bring 
Our  childhood's  heart  again. 


(seventy-eight) 


Other    Poems    of    the    West 


When  Elsie  Sings 

HEN  Elsie  sings,  the  shadowed  room 
Becomes  a  bower  of  wild-rose  bloom; 
re  "hear  faint-  whisperings  of  trees, 
The  mellow  hum  of  golden  bees, 
The  glad  birds  warbling  in  the  glen, — 
It's  Springtime  in  our  hearts  again 
When  Elsie  sings. 

When  her  pure  voice  is  lifted  high 
We  see  the  white  clouds  sailing  by, 
The  joyous  lark  and  bobolink 
In  raptures  by  the  river's  brink, 
And  lovers  straying  hand  in  hand 
Through  the  green  lanes  of  fairlyland, — 
When  Elsie  sings. 

Her  voice,  like  some  rare  golden  key, 
Unlocks  the  gates   of  memory: 
Till   precious    things   from    vanished    years 
Shine  through  a  mist  of  sudden  tears, — 
The  secret  treasures  of  the  heart, 
Life's  hidden,  hallowed,  better  part, 
When  Elsie  sings. 

Dear  faces  smile  on  us  again;  — 
We  hear  the  tramp  of  marching  men;  — 
The  voice  of  prayer,  the  hymn  of  praise, 
Float  up  from  old  plantation  days, — 
While  Afton   water  ripples   clear 
And  Bonnie  Doon  draws  wondrous  near, — 
As  Elsie  sings. 

(seventy-nine) 


The      Call      of      California 


It  makes  the  grieving  heart  rejoice 
To  hear  the  sweet  lilt  of  her  voice. 
Hope's  star  beams  with  a  brighter  ray, 
And  Heaven  seems  less  far  away: — 
We  almost  see  before  our  eyes 
The  shining  hills  of  Paradise, 
When  Elsie  sings. 


(eighty) 


Other    Poems    of    the    West 


Incidental  Philosophy 


THE   PRECIOUS   THINGS   OF  LIFE 

IE  start  out  in  life  with  the  idea  that-  if 
we  have  but  a  big  enough  sackful  we 
can  buy  the  world.  Well,  there  are  lots  of 
things  tcr  sale  in  the  world,  lots  of  things 
with  a  price  tag  on  them.  But  after  we  get 
a  little  sense  we  find  that  after  all  the  most 
dear  and  precious  things  in  life  are  not  for 
sale,  are  beyond  price,  and  if  we  ever  pos 
sess  them  some  one  must  give  them  to  us 
freely,  gladly  and  absolutely;  otherwise  they 
can  never  be  ours.  But  many  do  not  be 
lieve  this,  many  do  not  understand  this. 
Blessed  are  they  who  believe  and  under 
stand. 

When  St.  Francis  preached  to  the  birds 
out  in  the  woods,  it  was  because  he  loved 
them,  calling  them  his  little  brothers.  And 
the  little  birds  loved  him  in  return,  and 
fluttered  about  him,  singing  and  showing 
their  joy  at  his  company.  For  such  is  the 
nature  of  love:  it  always  gives  itself  natur 
ally,  spontaneously,  gladly  and  freely  for 
something  like  itself:  it  never  sells  itself, 
nor  trades  itself,  but  just  gives  itself.  The 
counterfeits  are  for  sale  and  the  cheap  imi 
tations  are  priced  in  all  the  market  places, 
but  love,  true,  tender,  trusting  love,  does 
not  sell  itself  ever  at  any  price.  Happy  the 
man  or  woman  to  whom  this  truth  is  known. 

(eighty-one) 


The      Call      of      California 


After  all  is  said  and  done,  love  is  the  one 
great  tonic,  beautifier  and  rejuvenator. 
Love  is  the  real  fountain  of  youth,  the 
spring  of  purest,  deepest  joy  in  life.  A 
true  lover,  who  is  truly  loved  in  return  by 
his  or  her  mate,  is  ever  young  at  heart,  no 
matter  what  the  mirror  or  almanac  may 
say.  Time  puts  no  wrinkles  in  the  heart 
that  loves  and  is  loved. 

After  all  the  poets  and  novelists  have 
sung  or  written  on  the  world's  oldest,  most 
universal  theme,  it  will  surprise  some  folks 
to  learn  that  the  truest  wisest,  most  beauti 
ful  description  of  love,  was  penned  by  St. 
Paul,  in  the  thirteenth  chapter  of  the  first 
epistle  to  the  Corinthians.  It  should  be 
written  in  letters  of  gold,  and  hung  on  the 
walls  of  our  homes,  for  it  is  indeed:  "The 
Greatest  Thing  in  the  World." 
#  *  * 

APPRECIATION 

Because  we  are  just  ordinary  mortals  and 
not  angels,  we  covet  appreciation  from 
those  who  are  nearest  and  dearest  to  us, — 
expressed  appreciation  that  we  can  feel, 
and  hear  and  cherish.  We  get  no  good  from 
the  kisses  on  our  tombstone,  from  the  lov 
ing  words  uttered  over  our  unresponsive 
dust.  Fathers  and  mothers,  wives  and  hus 
bands,  sons  and  daughters,  so  often  wait 
and  long  for  the  expressed  appreciation 
that  never  comes  until  too  late  to  do  any 
good. 

Sometimes  we  receive  some  sort  of  a  gift 

(eighty-two) 


Other    Poems    of    the    West 


that  represents  a  money  value,  but  that  is 
not  what  we  want,  we  want  something  from 
somebody's  heart.  If,  when  things  go 
wrong,  or  the  way  is  rough  and  our  sky 
is  overcast,  the  right  person  should  just  say 
to  us  in  the  right  way:  "I  do  appreciate  you, 
I'm  glad  I  have  you,  and  I  just  could  not 
get  along  without  you,"  it  would  help  so 
much.  It  would  freshen  our  heart,  revive 
our  courage,  clear  our  sky,  put  a  song  in 
our  soul  and  add  years  to  our  lives.  Just 
a  little  honest,  heart-born,  expressed  ap 
preciation,  is  better  than  remorse  later  on. 


ART  AND  HURRY 

I  know  a  man,  plain  and  unpretending, 
who  can  produce  wonderfully  artistic  and 
beautiful  things  if  you  give  him  a  few 
pieces  of  lumber,  a  few  tools  and  lots  of 
time, — if  you  don't  stand  over  him  cracking 
a  whip,  telling  him  to  "hurry  up  that  art 
stuff."  For  art  cannot  hurry,  must  take 
its  own  time  and  express  itself  in  its  own 
way.  Art  is  as  independent1  as  an  oak-tree, 
that  must  develop  slowly  along  the  lines  of 
its  own  nature.  We  still  admire  and  copy 
and  treasure  the  fragments  of  artistic  work 
that  remain  from  those  long  gone  years 
when  the  worker  was  unhurried  at  his  task. 
But  who  will  care  for  the  fragments  of  the 
cheap  and  hideous  stuff  we  turn  out  now 
in  carload  lots,  hurriedly,  boastfully.  Hurry 
is  the  enemy  of  art  and  the  foe  of  real 

(eighty-three) 


The      Call      of      California 


beauty  in  all  the  world's  workshops.     The 
perfect  processes  of  Nature  are  unhurried. 

*  *         * 

THE  LANGUAGE  OP  KINDNESS 
When  Stt.  Francis  preached  his  sermon  to 
his  "brother  birds,"  they  did  not  know 
what  it  was  all  about,  nor  to  what  church 
he  belonged.  But  they  well  understood  one 
thing  and  that  was  that  he  was  kind  to  them. 
The  language  of  kindness  is  understood 
everywhere.  A  horse,  a  dog,  a  cat,  can 
understand  it,  and  children  and  women  and 
even  men  can  recognize  and  understand  the 
speech  of  kindness,  almost  anywhere  in  the 
world. 

Folks  may  hot  be  able  to  meet  our  argu 
ments  about  religion  or  points  of  doctrine, 
but  they  can  easily  tell  whether  we  have 
any  kindness  of  heart  or  not.  And  if  our 
theology  of  whatsoever  brand,  does  not  pro 
duce  fruit  of  kindliness,  it  needs  to  be 
taken  to  the  garage  and  overhauled,  for  it 
is  only  hit-ting  on  one  cylinder. 

How  little  it  means  to  say  of  a  man:  "He 
was  worth  a  million  when  he  died,"  and 
how  much  it  means  when  we  can  say:  "He 
was  always  a  kind-hearted  man."  For  as 
kindness  is  the  essence  of  true  gentility  so 
is  it  the  fundamental  principle  of  all  real 
religion,  of  all  true  gentleness  of  soul. 

*  *         * 
VISION 

"Where  there  is  no  vision  the  people 
perish."  These  words  are  as  true  today  as 

(eighty -four) 


Other     Poems     of    the    West 


twenty-five  centuries  ago,  in  spite  of  all  the 
Gradgrinds  and  Bounderbys  in  the  world. 
The  men  and  women  who  can  see,  the  seers 
are  ever  the  light  bearers,  leaders  and  saviors 
of  the  race.  And  it  is  not  merely  a  question 
of  eyes,  nor  of  eye-sight,  but  goes  much 
deeper  than  that.  It  is  what  makes  the 
difference  between  the  real  artist  and  the 
photographer,  the  sculptor  and  the  marble 
cutter,  the  builder  and  the  bricklayer — the 
one  merely  has  eyes,  while  the  other  has 
vision. 

And  by  the  possession  of  vision  one  be 
comes  a  member  of  the  great  brotherhood 
not  only  of  the  illustrious  dead  and  living 
among  men,  but  also  of  the  flowers,  trees, 
rocks,  rills,  birds,  winds,  clouds,  peaks  and 
stars.  Vision  is  the  golden  key  that  un 
locks  for  us  the  treasures  of  the  universe, 
hidden  in  a  thousand  radiant,  jeweled 
rooms:  it  is  what  illuminates  the  dull  drab 
pages  of  life's  monotonous  manuscript  with 
celestial  colors,  and  fadeless  beauty.  Lord, 
open  our  eyes  that  we  may  see,  give  us 
vision. 

*         *         * 

LOVERS    AND    SWEETHEARTS    STILL 

THOUGH  MARRIED 
After  the  honeymoon,  the  honeyed  years; 
after  the  bride  the  wife;  after  the  first,  lit 
tle  ripe  fruits  the  glory  and  richness  and 
wonder  of  the  fruit  harvest;  when  the 
maiden  is  a  woman  and  the  love-light  in  her 
eye  in  some  way  blends  with  the  dancing 

(eighty-five) 


The      Call      of      California 


fire-light  of  the  hearthstone  of  home. 
After  the  blossom  hroidered  honeymoon 
trail,  the  long  trail  together  up  and  down 
the  hills  and  valleys  of  real  life,  in  true 
comradeship,  sharing  all  things,  hoping, 
enduring,  rejoicing  together  in  all  things  all 
the  way.  All  things,  not  some  things  only. 
Sharing  all  things  gladly,  lovingly,  unself 
ishly,  habitually,  hand  in  hand,  heart  to 
heart,  cheek  to  cheek,  eye  to  eye.  Lovers 
and  sweethearts  still,  though  married, 
through  all,  in  all,  in  spite  of  all,  yea,  be 
cause  of  all  that  may  come.  Give  others 
what  they  will,  but  give  me  that. 

*  *         * 

CHURCH  TAGS 

The  important  thing  is  not  what  sort  of 
a  church  tag  you  have  hanging  to  you,  but 
are  you  delivering  any  goods.  If  you  have 
nothing  but  an  old  church  label  sticking  on 
you,  then  get-  out  of  the  way  and  don't 
block  up  the  sidewalk;  let  the  old  truck 
drive  up  that  wants  to  deliver  something. 
You  will  need  to  show  St.  Peter  something 
more  than  a  beautifully  engraved  church 
tag  in  order  to  get  through  heaven's  gate, 
and  take  a  reserved  seat  inside. 

*  *         * 
SENTIMENT 

Some  people  laugh  at  sentiment,  con 
sidering  it  as  a  sign  of  weakness.  But  it 
seems  to  me  that  sentiment  is  the  border 
of  blue  and  gold  and  crimson  around  the 
pages  of  life's  book,  the  beautiful  illumin- 

(eighty-six) 


Other    Poems    of    the    West 


ated  capitals,  lighting  up  and  brightening 
the  otherwise  dreary  and  monotonous  text. 

I  am  sorry  for  the  man  or  woman  out  of 
whose  lives  all  sentiment  has  gone, — all 
of  the  bird  songs,  dew-drops  and  rainbows, 
all  of  life's  wonder  and  fairyland. 

For  when  the  dream,  the  vision,  the  glam 
our,  and  all  the  sweet  illusions  have  van 
ished,  what  is  left  but  a  hard,  dusty  high 
way,  under  a  scorching  sky? 

*  *         * 
EMPTY  FACES 

You  see  them  so  often — empty  faces,  dull 
and  vacant  as  an  old  deserted  house  or  the 
clay-bank  of  a  brick-yard.  They  have  eyes, 
but  they  see  not,  ears,  but-  they  hear  not, 
neither  do  they  understand. 

You  see  them  on  the  streets,  at  the  mov 
ing  picture  shows,  wherever  some  '"barker" 
is  bawling  his  wares,  standing  ox-like,  star 
ing,  gaping,  vacantly  wondering.  And  I 
often  think  of  the  drab,  dull,  barren  monoto 
nous  lives  behind  those  empty  faces,  like 
Markham's  "M,an  With  the  Hoe."  Oh,  the 
pity  of  it,  the  commonness  of  it,  the  tragedy 
of  it. 

*  *         * 
SHORT  CUTS 

Short  cuts  are  the  fashion  in  these  days, 
short*  cuts  to  wealth,  health,  beauty,  knowl 
edge,  success  and  even  to  heaven.  We 
have  books  offered  that  will  teach  us  "Span 
ish  at  a  Glance,"  give  us  "Health  Without 
Any  Discomfort,"  provide  an  "Easy  Method 

(eighty-seven) 


The      Call      of      California 


of  Acquiring  Wealth,"  open  an  "Easy  Road 
to  Knowledge,"  or  "A  Comfortable  and  Pleas 
ant  Way  to  Heaven,"  "Who'll  buy,  who'll 
buy?" 

But  too  often  the  short  cut  lands  one  in 
jail,  or  the  hospital  or  the  asylum  or  in  hell, 
for  it  is  the  testimony  of  t'he  ages  that 
there  is  no  short  cut  to  any  real  excellence 
in  anything  of  worth.  We  must  pay  the 
price  in  full  in  some  fashion,  for  there  is  no 
achieving  of  excellence  without  great  labor. 
Something  for  nothing  is  but  the  dream  of 
a  fool  or  a  rascal.  As  Emerson  says:  "Step 
up  and  take  what  you  will,"  quoth  God, 
"but  first  pay  the  price."  The  world's  su 
perstructure  of  real  civilization  rests  on 
great  blocks  that  cost  sweat  to  hew  and 
shape  and  put  in  place,  brow  sweat,  brain 
sweat,  yea,  at  times  bloody  sweat  in  silent 
and  awful  Gethsemanes. 

If  your  plans  for  success  propose  to  avoid 
and  eliminate  all  honest  sweat  by  means  of 
some  short  cut,  you  will  fail  and  fall.  Only 
those  whose  brows  are  wet  with  honest 
sweat-  have  the  right  to  sit  at  the  king's 
table,  for  that  is  the  seal  of  their  sonship 
and  the  badge  of  their  royalty.  There  is  no 
short  cut  to  a  place  in  the  Hall  of  the  Im 
mortals. 

*         *         * 

CHEERFUL  SAINTS 

As  Saint  Francis  trudged  along  the  roads 
of  Italy  he  sang  a  great  deal,  and  was  a 
very  cheerful  sort  of  a  saint, — which  is  the 

(eighty- eight) 


Other     Poems     of    the    West 


best  kind  to  be  if  you  are  thinking  of  going 
into  that  business.  As  someone  has  well 
said: 

"We    all    are    weary    travelers    along 

Life's  dusty  way. 
If  any  man  can  play  the  pipes,  in  God's 

name  let  him  play." 

Some  of  the  saints  whom  I  have  met  do 
not  seem  to  be  very  hilarious  over  it;  it 
seems  to  be  a  very  doleful  and  melancholy 
business  for  them  to  be  good,  and  some  of 
them  are  about  as  cheerful  company  as  an 
old  crock  of  buttermilk.  The  only  way  they 
can  be  happy  in  heaven  will  be  to  get  off  in 
a  corner  and  put  up  a  screen  and  be  miser 
able  together.  They  think  they  have  re 
ligion  when  it  is  only  indigestion. 


When  we  look  back  over  our  lives  most 
of  us  find  many  things  to  regret,  but  we  are 
never  sorry  for  having  brought  gladness  to 
a  child's  heart.  It  costs  so  little  and  it 
often  means  so  much,  to  give  pleasure  to  a 
little  child. 

*         *         * 

He  who  wrongs  and  deceives  you  may 
think  he  is  harming  you,  but  somehow  he 
alone  is  truly  harmed,  and  his  evil  returns 
on  his  own  pate,  for,  as  St.  Augustine  says: 
"In  all  the  universe,  nothing  can  truly 
harm  me  except  my  own  self." 

(eighty-nine) 


The      Call      of      California 


THE  HURRYITIS 

Some  have  appendicitis,  bronchitis,  ton- 
silitis,  or  meningitis,  but  they  are  as  naught 
in  comparison  with  those  who  are  afflicted 
by  that  peculiarly  American  ailment — the 
hurryitis.  It  is  because  of  that  trouble  that 
we  are  increasing  the  number  of  our  hos 
pitals,  asylums,  sanitariums,  sanitoriums, 
rest  cure  establishments  and  cemeteries 
from  Maine  to  California, — because  of  the 
little  old  American  hurryitis. 

When  the  doctor  makes  out  the  certificate 
he  does  not  use  the  word  hurryitis,  but 
"words  of  learned  length  and  thundering 
sound,"  to  excuse  the  size  of  his  bill.  But 
if  he  should  put  down  the  simple  truth  he 
would  often  say:  "Another  case  of  the 
hurryitis.  That  is  what  has  brought  him  to 
the  hospital,  asylum,  or  undertakers  so  long 
ahead  of  time." 

When  the  hurryitis  gets  a  good  grip  on  a 
fellow,  he  will  begin  to  talk  to  himself  and 
others  something  in  this  fashion:  "Well, 
I'm  going  to  get  mine  while  the  getting  is 
good,  and  I'm  going  to  get  it  now.  I'm  not 
going  to  be  fifty  years  about  it  as  grandad 
was,  he  was  too  slow,  I'm  going  to  show 
the  folks  a  few  wrinkles  and  fill  my  sack  in 
a  hurry.  And  I'm  going  to  get  some  of  the 
other  fellow's  pile,  too,  if  he  doesn't  look 
out,  for  I'm  going  to  work  while  he's  asleep. 
I  don't  intend  to  sleep  any  on  the  job.  And 
I'm  going  to  work  while  he's  off  on  a  vaca 
tion,  for  I  intend  to  cut  out  all  vacation 

(ninety) 


Other     Poems     of    the    West 


foolishness.  I'm  just  going  to  fill  my  sack 
as  soon  as  possible,  tie  her  up  good  and 
tight,  hang  a  few  joy-bells  on  me,  and  have 
a  good  time  for  a  long  while." 

Which  is  certainly  a  fine  and  dandy  pro 
gram.  But  just  about  that  time  something 
pops  inside  of  him.  The  next  day  he  goes 
to  the  doctor  and  says:  "Doc,  I've  unex 
pectedly  busted  something  inside  of  me.  I 
can't  get  at  it  to  see  what  it  is,  but  you 
put  the  X-ray  on  me  and  tell  me  what  the 
trouble  is.  I've  got  the  price,  so  hurry  up 
and  stick  a  new  thing  in  me  and  let  me 
get  back  on  the  job,  for  I  have  a  lot  of  im 
portant  business  waiting  for  me  at  the  of 
fice." 

The  doctor  puts  the  X-ray  on  him,  and 
then  shakes  his  head  as  he  hums  and  haws 
and  taps  his  nail  with  his  gold-rimmed  eye 
glasses,  and  says  to  him:  "My  friend,  I'm 
very  sorry  to  inform  you  that  I  have  no 
extra  part's  like  the  one  you  broke.  There 
was  only  one  and  you've  smashed  it.  What 
made  you  do  it?  Didn't  you  have  any 
sense?  Did  you  think  you  were  made  out 
of  cast-iron  inside,  or  built  like  an  ostrich 
or  an  alligator?  Why,  man,  you  haven't 
any  more  sense  than  a  bull-dog.  A  bull-dog 
just  has  brains  enough  to  take  hold  and 
hang  on,  he  doesn't  know  enough  to  let  go. 
Why  didn't  you  let  go  once  in  a  while  and 
go  a  fishing?" 

And  the  man  answers:  "Well,  Doc,  you 
see  I  was  in  a  hurry  to  get  my  sack  full,  and 

(ninety-one) 


The      Call      of      Callforni 


I  was  afraid  that  if  I  let  go  for  a  while  the 
other  fellow  would  get  some  of  mine  while 
I  was  gone." 

"Well,  I'm  sorry,"  says  the  doctor,  "but 
you're  through  now,  you're  done,  you're 
nothing  now  but  a  piece  of  scrap  iron.  I 
may  be  able  to  patch  you  up  so  you  can 
wobble  along  for  a  time  on  one  cylinder. 
But  your  good  days  are  over,  because 
you  didn't  know  enough  to  let  go  once  in 
a  while  and  go  a  fishing." 

And  the  man  goes  out  looking  down  the 
end  of  his  nose,  and  has  forgotten  all  about 
the  little  joy-bells,  and  begins  to  live  on 
a  prune  and  a  cracker  a  day.  This  is  no 
fairy  story,  so  beware  of  the  hurryitis.  It's 
a  good  thing  to  know  when  to  take  hold 
and  hustle;  but  it  shows  just  as  much 
gumption  to  know  when  to  let  go  and  go 
a  fishing. 


The      Call      of      California 


Tost  Tenebras  Lucem  Spero 

E  tides  of  life  will  thunder  as  before, 
The  ancient  riddles  still  remain  unread, 
en  I  am  with  the  unresponsive  dead, 
Lapped  in  a  seamless  silence,  evermore, 

But,  when  I've  gone  the  way  of  all  the  earth, 
Down  to  the  voiceless   chambers   of  the 

dust, 
When  men  have  judged  me,  as  they  will 

and  must, — 
Oh,  may  there  be  of  charity  no  dearth. 

I  would  that  for  a  little  space  at  least, 
A  few  brief  days,  some  hearts  might  think 

of  me; 
For  my  sake  drop  one  tear  of  memory 

As  they  sit  down  to  life's  recurrent  feast. 

And  yet,  I  would  not  have  them  grieve  for 

me, 

Nor  dim  the  gladness  of  one  golden  day, 
Nor  cease  the  shuttling  of  their  work  and 

play 
When  from  the  wheel  unshackled  I  am  free : 

Free,  then,  to  roam  the  chartless  fields  of 

space; 
To   learn   the    myst'ries   of   the   morning 

stars ; 

The  secrets  locked  behind  celestial  bars; 
Perchance  to  meet  the  Maker,  face  to  face! 

(ninety-three) 


Other    Poems    of    the    West 


For  there  are  things  that  I  have  longed  to 

know, — 
Unanswered  questions  from  the  book  of 

Job; 

Dim  hieroglyphs  about  Creation's  robe; 
Vague  footprints  of  the  gods  of  long  ago. 

Yea,  I  have  dreamed  that  when  the  fetters 

fall 
That    bind    me    to    this    blindly   whirling 

wheel, 

I  might  begin  to  nearer  see  and  feel 
Something  of  life's  stupendous,  endless  All! 

Swifter  than  light  to  pass  through  ether  air, 
Back  to  the  fountain  heads  whence  all 

hath  sprung, 
See  gods  at  work  as  when  the  sea  was 

young; 

Be    of    the    gods    myself,    somehow,    some 
where. 

But  nearness  is  not  knowledge,  in  all  things : 
The  slow  ant  crawling  o'er  the  pyramid 
Sees  naught  of  Rameses  nor  works  he 

did; 

The    swallow   skims    the    lake   on    flashing 
wings, 

But  what  to  her  the  gulfs  that  lie  below? 

So,  when  this  weary  wheel  at  last  shall 
cease, 

And  I  perchance  have  won  to  Betelgeuse, 
Still  comes  the  question:  can  I  surely  know? 

(ninety-four) 


The      Call      of      California 


Will  I  be  I  and  rise  to  such  great  height, 
Striding  amid  the  stars,  all  unafraid, 
Viewing    them    but    as    pots    the    Potter 

made, 

Whose  refuse  shards  gild  the  dread  comet's 
flight? 

Radiant,  serene,  shall  I  with  level  eyes 
Behold   the  angel   of  Apocalypse 
Gather   the   clashing   seas   with  all   their 
ships 

Back  to  the  secret  cisterns  of  the  skies? 

Like  calls  to  like:  we  cannot  understand 
What  lies  beyond  that  birthplace  of  the 

tomb, 
Nor  what  awaits  us  in  that  other  room. 

But  God  will  take  his  children  by  the  hand 

And   lead   t-hem   in    a   way   they   have  not 

known, 
By   paths   of   splendor   they   have   never 

dreamed, 
And   show  them   whence   His  quenchless 

glory  streamed 

From  clustering  suns  about  His  love-borne 
throne. 

So,  when  my  tired  eyes  have  lost  their  light, 
And  I  am  gone  the  old,  old  way, — alone, 
Grave  then  these  sturdy  words  upon  my 
stone, 

"Post  tenebras  nunc  lucem  spero" — write. 


(ninety-five) 


Other    Poems    of    the    West 


INDEX 

Page 

The  Call  of  California 5 

At  the   Old  Mission 8 

Bodies   and    Souls 10 

Junipero    Serra    ~ 11 

The  West  12 

Mt.  Rubidoux  at  Dawn.. 15 

The   Mission   Inn    17 

Down   the   Grade   With   Bob 19 

The  Road  by   Panama 21 

Mexico    24 

The   Land   of  the   Arriero 25 

A  Thunder  Storm  in  Puebla 28 

Taking   the   Veil    (Mexico) 30 

Old    House   in    Puebla,   Mexico .32 

A    Mexican    Beggar 33 

A  Glimpse  of  Mexico  at  Home 34 

In  the  Days  of  the  Buccaneers 38 

Calvary     50 

Old    Mexico    51 

The  Death  Pool  at  La  Brea 52 

"Mangos    de   Manila" 53 

Grief 54 

Kismet    54 

A  Norther  in  Veracruz 55 

At   the    Ruins   of   Mitla 57 

In  the  Cathedral   Towers   at  Dawn 58 

Titian's    "Entombment    of    Christ" 60 

Old    Cal    Beaver 61 

To  the  Folks  Back  East 66 

The   Market  Place   in   Puebla 67 

La   Casai  de    Contenta 72 

Our   Margaret   73 

Day    Dreams    _ 74 

Hand    in    Hand.... 76 

The  Ship  of  Good  Fortune  77 

When    Elsie    Sings 79 

Incidental    Philosophy    81 

Post   Tenebras    Lucem   Spero 93 


(ninety-six) 


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